


Trials of Brotherhood

by nessundorma345 (wastrelwoods)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Norse Mythology, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: And a little Thor too, F/M, Gen, Loki Does What He Wants, Lots and lots of unnecessary woobie!Loki, Thor answers them, Tony asks questions, gratuitous alcohol consumption, only sometimes he doesn't quite know what that is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/nessundorma345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based around the prompt: Five times that Loki saved Thor's ass (and one time that he didn't)</p><p>Because while Thor is the erstwhile mighty god of thunder, he is also an idiot, and Loki has a sort of tendency to be dragged along for the ride. In which can be found, among other things: a ridiculous amount of drinking (because Tony Stark is ineffably Tony Stark), many incidents ending with daggers in the back (both figurative and literal, because the god of mischief makes a much better snake than a spider), and how the color of Loki's eyes becomes as green as poison (but eventually everything always shifts back to blue). </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Wednesday, 10:06 pm, Stark Tower:

"Why do you trust him?" The words spill from his mouth before he can check them. Stupid question, really. It's too personal, too close to crossing the boundaries Thor has set with them. Tony blames the bourbon he's consumed already.

They're sitting on the roof of the penthouse engaged in some kind of unspoken drinking contest. The thunder god and the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. Just a couple of guys with a penchant for more alcohol than is healthy, especially after a long day.

It's been a very long day. 

And now he's drunk enough to start asking stupid, sentimental questions, and Thor's drunk enough to answer them. Why do you trust him? A rather vague question, but neither of them need to specify. They both know what it means.

Loki.

Thor looks uncomfortable, because he's not quite drunk enough to cry outright. He gives a sigh, turning the empty bottle over in his hand. "He is my brother. And he has saved my life many times."

Tony can't help but gawk a little at this, because it's so contrary to everything he knows about the pair. "Strictly speaking, Hammer Time, he isn't your brother. And he's had a direct hand in sixty-seven attempts on your life by my count. So far."

"Sixty-eight."

"Case in point. Pour me another round, would ya?" Thor complies, silent and brooding. 

Tony frowns, nursing the refilled drink thoughtfully. "So why would you trust him?"

"Loki, he always...he is unpredictable. ("Damn straight" Tony mutters under his breath.) And I can always trust that he will do what I least expect."

The inventor snorts sardonically. "Some comfort that must be."

"It's...not ideal, no. But I can't help thinking that through everything, my broth-Loki will always be watching my back."

"Or waiting to stab it, Thor."

The thunder god chuckles and downs the last of his drink. "A chance I am willing to take."

"Your funeral." They sit in silence for a while, the stifling darkness penetrated only by the eerie glow of the arc reactor and a few gently twinkling stars overhead. Tony Stark cannot stand silence. Not this kind. It leaves too much room for his nightmares to creep inside his head and take him away. He feels his breath constrict in his chest, because even drinking doesn't slow these thoughts, thoughts about pain and betrayal and Obediah-

Stop that thought before it begins, Tony. Focus on other people's problems. "Thor." The demigod stirs from a stupor neither one had noticed, starting at the sound of his name. Tony's face must be pretty damn readable, because when Thor replies, his glance is gentle and understanding. Not pitying, thank god. Still, Tony feels the silence threaten to close in again.

"You- you said that Loki has saved your life before. When?"

"Countless times, friend Stark."

He snorts again. "Doubtful. Name me five occasions where Reindeer Games has saved your ass. Just five."

Thor runs a hand through entirely-too-long blond hair, pouring himself and his friend another generous helping of the (very good vintage) bourbon. Blue eyes stare without seeing across New York, probably across several realms, across space and time. Tony can't tell if the distant look means yes or no. Shooting Thor his best puppy-dog eyes, the not-soldier vigilante continues hopefully. "Name me five times he's saved you, and I swear that I will bear-hug him next time he shows up to decimate a major metropolitan area."

Thor laughs, but it sounds a bit strained. "It is a bargain, son of Howard."

And for once, Tony doesn't even mind the allusion to his father.


	2. Chapter 2

one

The first is Thurisaz. Gateway. This is the most crucial part. He forms the shape and feel of it in his mind, draws it in the dust with a finger. Laguz. Flow. It's funny because it looks like the first letter of his name. It helps him focus, to control.

Oh. Now he can feel it. Not quite a door, but a place where a door could be. Kano, then. Opening. He is so caught up in the excitement that he almost forgets Raidho. Journey. What good is a door that doesn't go anywhere?

It's forming now, just as he read it. Eihwaz. Defense. Mannaz. The Self. Then, finally, Perthro. Initiation.

The wind from the other side hums around him, whipping his dark hair about his face wildly.

"Thor!"

***

"Wait, you actually made a door? To Nornheim?"

Loki bobs his head proudly, gesturing to the slight shimmer above his left shoulder. 

"Out of what?" Thor looks doubtful, but the promise of adventure glimmers bright in his eyes.

The younger boy rolls his eyes. Such a basic lack of fundamentals. "Thor, it was already there. I just had to...help it along. I opened up a path between two of Yggdrasil's branches and placed the runes at a Pentagonal counterpoint, ensuring the proper flow of Daagaz across the plain of...." Thor looks like he wishes he hadn't asked.

Partly he's doing this on purpose, because he knows his older brother knows nothing about the branches of Yggdrasil or really, anything he says. But what is talent for if not showing off a bit? 

Thor already does this sometimes, in the training ring when Fandral or Hogun or Loki himself has been defeated. Stands above them, smiling wide in victory. Laughing, too. Well, he stopped doing it to Loki after the trickster dyed his hair pink for a month. Good times. 

But he does want to try it out, so he slows a rant on the proper use of dark energy along the pathways and stops making up words. Once the fun wears off he just explains everything in the simplest terms possible. And eventually, understanding is reached. 

"Well then what are we waiting for? Let's go!" Thor grabs him by the hand and makes for the door.

"No, Thor, wait!" He bends down. One more rune. Gebo. Partnership. He feels the invisible ropes bind them to each other and Asgard. Secure.

"There." And they're gone.

In hindsight, perhaps they could have thought the whole thing through better.

***

"This isn't Nornheim."

"I know, Thor."

"Loki, this isn't _Nornheim_!"

"Thor, shut up! I'm trying to figure out..."

"Don't tell me to shut up! I'm the leader!"

"No you aren't."

"Yes I am."

"I made the door. I should be the leader."

"But I'm the oldest. And didn't you just say-"

"Just because you're Daddy's little favorite-"

"You're just jealous 'cause I'm stronger than you-"

"Why would I be jealous of such a complete fool-"

"Am no- LOKI!"

"Why, hello, little princelings."

***  
Stark Tower:

He watches them with eyes narrowed into slits. Normally, he relishes the freedom of the cool night air on his face. His heart never beats like it does when on the edge of an impossibly high precipice looking down.

And really, that's all it takes for him to be at home. A place where he can think, and look, and listen. But right now, he doesn't like what he hears.

***

Malekith of Svartalfheim is utterly predictable in some aspects. Trespassers? Lock them in a spare cell. (At least it's a comfortable cell. Well, better than one might expect  in most hostage situations.)

Princes? What a jackpot! Well, let them stew for a bit so it looks like he’s hesitant to hold them for ransom. He’ll be talking to Allfather sooner or later.

The demand for their release? Likely whatever stolen relic from the vault he's cast his piggy eyes on.

The fat fool is hilariously easy to read even before Loki has clapped eyes on him. Draped languidly across the uncomfortable cot in their cell, half-listening to his idiot brother pound on the door, Loki plans. And if it looks like he's asleep, well, so much the better.

He tests his limits, lazily curling his fingers to form a rune. Laguz. Flow. The one that looks like his name. It slides from his fingers, dissipating in the cold night air. Loki bites back a curse, determined to stay calm. It's Thor's way to demand freedom or issue brash challenges. Loudly.

He doesn't want to be like Thor. 

"LET ME OUT! I AM A SON OF ODIN!" Thor bellows. There's a thud and Loki knows without opening his eyes that he's throwing himself against the door with all his thirteen-year-old force.

(They already know that, dolt. That's why we're here.)

He ignores the voice in his head that reminds him none of this would be happening if he hadn't landed them in Svartalfheim because right now what he needs is to be angry at Thor and he lies to himself well enough to do that for the moment. He smothers the small portion of his brain that is secretly thankful not to be stuck here, in this dark cell, alone.

***

Whump!

The stubborn door makes a hollow noise when he collides with it, but doesn't move. He's angry because he doesn't know where he is or who's captured them, and he's angry because Loki probably does. 

And he's angry at Loki, so asking him nicely for help isn't an option.

Whump! 

He doesn't even know for sure whether Loki planned this, and he doesn't want to know really.

Father will be angry, too, once he finds out.

Whump! 

All he can see in the dark is the Allfather's disappointed gaze. Monocular, but if anything that only makes it more potent.

And that's the last thing Thor wants, because he's so used to seeing smiles of approval, and besides it's Loki's fault they're here. But where is here?

Whump!

How do they get home?

Whump!

Will they ever get home?

Whump! A long-pent-up scream of rage bursts out.

The door opens, although Thor's disappointed to see it wasn't his doing. There's a guard outside, as typically burly and menacing as one might expect in this type of situation. He grabs Thor's arm, ignoring his protests and wild attempts to free himself from the guard's iron grip.

"Lord Malekith will see you now, princeling," he deadpans, kicking Thor for good measure. There's a faint snarl from the depths of the cell, but neither of them notice.

Well, at least he knows where they are now.

It doesn't help much.

***

Golden eyes are tight around the edges, the only outward sign of the turmoil behind them. Nothing breaks the watchman's stride, but this comes damned close. Odin knows before a word or glance is exchanged. Something is very, very wrong.

"Who?" 

Heimdall frowns, and his gaze sends a faint chill through the Allfather's heart. 

Who dares to touch my children? Child, he clarifies in the back of his mind like he always does.

No, they are both his children. Parentage does not matter now. What matters is that someone has laid a hand on them, and the watchman knows who.

"Malekith."

***

In the end, it's ridiculously easy. The door opens. Loki shields himself from view. The guard drags Thor out, kicking him for emphasis. A snarl escapes him.

The guard leaves Loki on the bed. The door shuts. The doppelganger dissipates. The cell is empty.

Loki is out of the castle and halfway through the return spell by the time Thor reaches the throne room.

***  
Stark Tower:

"You call that saving your ass?" There's a whoosh of cable and Hawkeye drops to the penthouse balcony with a soft rustle. He looks angry and distant, the way he always does when Thor's brother is mentioned. Thor looks a bit guilty. Tony sighs and pours a third scotch, offering it to the new arrival.

"Good of you to join us, Katniss. We were just discussing the heroic tendencies of that guy who fucked with your mind and made you kill people and stuff-"

"I remember the time." Clint glowers, taking the glass and pulling up a chair.

Thor looks uncomfortable. The master assassin knocks back the drink, staring darkly down at the nighttime traffic. His fingers make little strangling motions at his sides. Nobody asks what Clint is thinking.

Because Tony's never claimed to know the meaning of the word 'decorum', he speaks first. "So he just left you there on planet creepy?" This to Thor, of course.

Thor looks glad for an opportunity to ignore the Barton-sized elephant in the room. "Not quite."

***

The phrase "You're in over your head" is not one you expect to hear from the mouths of babes, as it were. Malekith was expecting petty and arrogant threats, if not sobs and pleas from the princeling. But when the oaken doors' creak signifies his...guest's arrival, these words are the first to be spoken.

He chuckles, leaning forward and stroking his chin with a long, dark finger. "I fail to see how I have the lower ground, little Asgardian. Enlighten me."

The prince stretches to his full height, nothing compared to most Asgardians, less among the tall dark elves. "I am Thor son of Odin Allfather, and I will see you burn for this!"

Oh, now come the arrogant and petty threats. "I have no plans to die today." He smiles, showing off his rotted teeth. The prince growls and spits at him.

He nods to the Mage in the corner, who flicks his wrist and murmurs. Thor collapses with a scream.

"You would do well, princeling, to show a bit of humility." The prince makes no response.

Wait a second. "Dökken! Were there not two captives?"

The guard's reply comes slowly, as though he needs more time to consider the question. "The littler 'un was sleep'n, Lord."

Malekith kneads the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I daresay you can interrupt the second prince's beauty sleep, fool. Bring him!" The guard leaves along with several others. 

The older prince sits up at the mention of his brother. "DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

Well, there was a surprising show of strength if he ever saw one. He rolls his black eyes, leaning back on the throne. He doesn't have time for this. He has yet to make his demands to the One-Eyed fool.

"He'll come to...minimal harm if you cooperate. I'll tell you how we'll go about this. I ask you a question, you tell me the answer."

Thor looks wary and defiant at the same time, something the dark elf is certain he'll never do again.

"If I don't like your answer, little princeling, well..."

The Mage snaps his fingers, and Thor drops to the ground again with a whimper.

Malekith smiles.

***

In the end he has no choice but to go back for Thor.

Loki isn't sure when it hits him. There are no nagging signs of guilt or quick glances back as he leaves the city. (On a different note he's never been shielded this long before and it's both exhausting and exciting.)

In fact, it doesn't fully occur to the second prince that he is leaving Thor behind until he hears the screams.

He shouldn't because he's well out of hearing range by now but before he can think too hard about it the pain hits him and he's screaming too.

Gebo. Partnership. The young prince retches, propping himself up with his hands and staring back at the city.

I can't go back there what about my magic?

When his eyes come slowly back into focus he stands and sighs, running a hand through short dark hair and experimentally snapping. He studies the flames that dance around his palm and his hopes burn to ashes right there.

In the end he has no choice but to go back.

***

Odin Allfather stares down at the projection of his sons and tries not to let his fear show. Malekith's voice, deep and cold and calculating, dances around his head long after the message is over.

"I have them right here, I assure you. And believe me I have no qualms about hurting them."

Frigga takes one look and her brow twists with pain. She leaves the room hurriedly. Odin stands and heads for the vault, each step echoing in the silent halls.

"I may, however, be persuaded to pity. Perhaps even to return the little lost lambs."

The doors part with a whoosh, and the king stands in the center of the room, his gaze revolving slowly. 

"My pity must be bought, Allfather. I would have no less that your most treasured relic. I would have Gungnir."

Looking down at the golden spear in his hand, Odin traces the runes on the tip with a worn finger. To give it up would be tantamount to surrendering his crown.

But Malekith is wrong. Far more treasured than this are his children.

"I would have your answer by the first light of dawn, or your sons will not live to see the new day."

In the end, he knows he will have no choice.

***

The pain comes wave after wave now, until he can feel nothing else. 

And it's more than difficult enough to break back into a castle as it is. But Loki is clever, and as the clock strikes midnight he's in, and hidden from prying eyes.

The screams stop. In spite of himself, he worries for Thor.

***

Between screams, Thor swears that if Malekith lays a hand on Loki, he will rip his arms off. The dark elf doesn't look too concerned with the statement. What concerns him is the return of the guards. Alone. He doesn't even wait for an explanation, simply gestures to the Mage and then Thor witnesses firsthand what happened to him moments before. Their limbs contort in a twisted parody of a dance, flesh sizzling and bruising and burning. And it felt worse than it looked.

Malekith strides past the prince to the fallen guards, then lowers himself to the eye level of the first.

"Where is our guest?" His voice is as cold as ice. The guard shivers, black eyes wide with fright.

"Gone, my Lord." 

At once, Thor's hopes soar and then dash themselves to pieces. 

(Loki's safe! He's free! And he... left me behind.)

He tries to be brave, to tell himself that really, what other option was there for his brother? But he's young, and in his selfish heart he really doesn't want to be here all alone. Even a warrior is allowed to be scared sometimes.

Malekith, as anyone might expect, is less than pleased. This is affirmed with a sharp snap as he breaks the neck of the unfortunate guard. 

"You!" He gestures to another group of dark elves, who jump to attention, "Search the city! Can't have our bargaining chips walking off, can we?" 

"Loki is far from here already! You'll never find him!" The captive prince bellows proudly. He senses rather than sees the smirk forming on Malekith's twisted face.

"I rather think not, little Asgardian. You!" The Mage stands to attention. Malekith laughs softly to himself. "Are you familiar with the concept of bait?"

The sorcerer smiles. He raises his hands-

"No need, Lord Malekith. I am here." Loki slides from the shadows, palms up, and Thor's hopes soar and crash again.

The dagger has left the mage's hand before any of them has time to blink, slicing through air and-

"YOU FOOL!" Malekith yells.

-sinking into the wall with a thud. The illusion dissolves into thick green smoke, which fills the chamber fast.

"Wait...maybe I'm here!"

"Here!"

"Over here!"

"I am here!"

Loki's voice sounds in every corner of the throne room. Each copy is brilliantly wrought. Hel, even Thor can't tell which is the real Loki until his brother winks.

Thor smiles as each dagger misses the mark. His bonds are gone. The real Loki is before him for a second and then gone.

"I'm he-Oof!"

And then Thor sees red mix with green and the illusions shatter with the cackle of the dark elf magician.

He feels the dagger in his shoulder when he sees it in Loki's but the pain in his heart is ten times worse. He clings to Loki and his brother clings to him, staining the marble with his blood - (ThurisazLaguzKanoRaidhoEihwazMannazGeboPerthro) 

And everything disappears in a whirl of nothing.

***

Eihwaz. Defense. Thor embodies the very essence of the word even after he is assured his little brother is completely healed. Even when Loki himself assures the elder prince he is fully capable of walking from his chambers to the great library unassisted, Thor follows him. Just to be sure.

Gebo. Partnership. From then on the two brothers might have been attached at the hip. The rune still binds them, but only Loki knows that. He could remove it easily, but decides it might come in handy later. Just in case. He takes every precaution to be sure Thor won't notice.

Laguz. Flow. Loki finds magic in himself for the first time, a tiny pocket tucked in next to his heart. There's something different, warmer about using magic within yourself rather than simply harnessing the world's tired energy. Amora laughs when he informs her, and calls it Seidr. He thinks it might also come in handy later.

Raidho. Journey. The adventure to Svartalfheim is not their first. Nor will it be their last.

There's a jagged scar running across Loki's right shoulder now. It's his first. Not his last.

When all is deemed safe and sound, when Malekith has been sent to the pits of Helheim by a vengeful father, and when Loki has promised not to put himself in such danger again (he'll find a loophole eventually), they hold a feast. It's the first feast held in honor of Loki Odinson's bravery. 

And the last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His posture is submissive, resigned, but his eyes are searching for a way out. Only there is no time.

two 

Loki's chambers are green. Very, very green. It's almost like being lost in a forest.

Thor remembers a time when he was free to enter these rooms at will. When he would relay stories of majestic battles (somewhat exaggerated) and Loki would listen, awestruck. And later, when his brother would levitate candles and make shapes in the darkness and Thor would look on in wonder. Times, too, when his own chambers were invaded by nightmares and he found refuge in the huge, green, quiet rooms that seemed to go on forever.

But they grew apart. Or perhaps it had always been that way, only neither one had realized it. All Thor knew was that his visits to Loki's chambers had grown fewer and farther between. One day they had stopped altogether.

Thor tries to recall his most recent conversation with the younger prince, but comes up empty. Perhaps they exchanged a few words at last week's gala (to celebrate his grand victory on Niflheim). Mere courtesy. 

Then why is he here? He isn't entirely sure, he only knows that it is an ungodly hour of the morning and he is busily breaking into his brother's room for the first time in a hundred years, because he needs to be surrounded by the calm green again. Doesn't matter if Loki himself isn't there. In fact, it's probably better that way.

And then Thor is in and it's just as green as he remembers only now the air crackles with dark energy and when in Valhalla did Loki get so many books? He's nowhere near as tidy as he had been. Loose sheets of paper litter the rich soft carpet that has served as an ocean or a field or the wastes of Jotünheim in many of their childhood dramas.

He lifts one yellowed page experimentally. When his hand doesn't burn off immediately, he turns it over and examines further. A spell.

***

Someone has broken into his rooms, and it seems like the day (which has just begun) only gets worse from there on out.

It has to be Thor, because who else would even want to be in his rooms anyway? Actually, the thought surprises him in a not altogether unpleasant manner, because truth be told (which doesn't happen often around Loki), he's missed his brother. 

And then he thinks about grubby hands on his spell books and the smile drops from his pale blue eyes. "Damn it Thor, if you've touched anything, I swear I will-"

There's a muffled bang and a very un-warrior-like screech and Loki just pinches the bridge of his nose and curses, wondering how bad the damage will be. Perhaps he'll get lucky, and Thor will have poofed himself off to Vanaheim. 

Loki thinks he's prepared for everything. It's worse. Much, much worse.

***  
Stark Tower:

"Wait, you can do magic?" Tony splutters, because he's almost drunk and everything is funny now. 

Thor explains that anyone can do magic, though true masters were born and not made, and he'd sat through several debriefings by his brother on the basics of it. Although the golden prince wasn't exactly proficient.

"So what happened? You failed and exploded the whole place?"

"Worse, Man of Iron. I succeeded."

***

A snake. Thor has turned himself into a thrice-damned snake.

But it appears to be a very well-formed and complete snake. No extra limbs or anything unpleasant like that. One hundred percent extremely not human brother. A silver lining, as it were.

Loki thinks it could be worse until he remembers why he's never done that kind of spellwork. He doesn't know how to change back. Or change Thor back.

Nobody in Asgard does, except...

Except Amora.

Loki curses roundly, picking up the reptile and stroking it's head with a pale finger. Thor hisses contentedly, curling around his wrist. 

In spite of himself, Loki smiles.

He looks over the spell, searching for a way out. What he finds is more trouble. "Thor, you fool! We have to change you back now, or you'll be stuck like this permanently."

***  
Stark Tower:

"So who's this Amora chick?" Tony queries, though his speech is slurred a bit.

"She is...was the most powerful sorceress in the nine worlds. Loki has since surpassed her, but..."

"Not the nicest lady?"

"She wanted us dead, Son of Howard."

This time, the name bothers him.

***

Amora's green eyes flash scarlet when she sees the snake curled around her former student's wrist. She smiles, but it's a dangerous sort of smile. Loki knows she can see through the charm, though she feigns ignorance.

"To what do I owe the honor, my prince?"

***

It was fun, at first, of course. Everything larger than life. Once you got past the unfortunate lack of limbs, snakehood was quite enjoyable. Also, whatever Loki was saying didn't translate very well into snake, so he was saved a scolding besides. He doesn't even think to wonder why his brother seems so...worried.

He hisses contentedly and curls around his wrist, feeling suddenly like taking a nap as Loki tosses books and sheets of parchment and a jar of dragon eyeballs across the floor in a frenzied search for something or other that Thor doesn't care about. He doesn't know it, of course, but even if his brother's ramblings were in snake he most likely wouldn't understand. Words do break through, ones like 'seidr' and 'blasted worthless scroll' and 'hissy fissy foo'. Although perhaps the latter is a sort of nickname. If he had eyebrows, they would raise.

Loki swears loudly - well, the snake assumes he does - and slumps against the dresser. A lock of dark hair is plastered across his forehead, beads of ink and sweat on his nose. He stares mournfully at Thor, who feels a curious buzzing in the back of his skull. This time, 'Amora' is the word that transcends the language barrier. The buzzing becomes an ache, slow and steady like an oncoming storm. It makes thinking difficult, but still. Amora? Does he mean to ask the enchantress for help? Thor remembers her dismissal, marching out of the court with her lips sewn shut - the punishment for liars and traitors - head held high and proud, how she had fixed her former student with a look so poisonous that Loki had seemed to shrivel under its venom.

Loki runs a cool finger over his aching head as sparks seem to burst behind his eyes. Thor hisses sadly, flicking his tounge in a reptilian wince. 

The spell is meant to last for eight hours, but by the fifth his vision has gone. More words break through the haze, and his head throbs.

"-time limit...permanent transformation...within your power...generous price...what?"

The dark presses in, invading every part of his being. Loki continues to speak. He sounds urgent, strained.

"Anything. Yes, even...just help him...of course I accept...I swear you will have payment."

Red spots appear in the corners of his vision and the dark takes over.

***

Afterwards, the whole thing seems like a dream. Loki never speaks of it, and if he looks Thor's way more often and puts stronger charms on his doors, neither one mentions it. And wouldn't the whole thing sound crazy anyway?

No, everything goes on as before, if it even happened in the first place. Thor fights and wins, Loki weaves more complicated magic (managing at last to shift into a cat and return to his true form). 

Thor wonders what price Loki paid on his behalf, but nothing seems evident. Well, not until the Lady Amora shows up at the court demanding the younger prince's blood.

"He vowed me his head as payment for a spell," she states coldly, and her fair hair whips around her as if blown in the wind. She takes Loki by the throat in front of all of Asgard, grey eyes flashing a familiar scarlet. He looks frightened. Genuinely frightened.

But he has to have a plan. Loki always has a plan. Doesn't he?

"Loki." The Allfather's voice sounds strained as Thor knows his would be if he spoke. "Is this true?"

Thor tenses his grip on the table. Odin looks wary. Amora narrows her eyes expectantly, half-mad smile on her face. Loki clears his throat.

"She speaks true."

All the court is in an uproar and Thor stands stricken. He catches Loki's gaze, pleading silently.

(Don't die Loki don't die because then it will be my fault and who else will be able to get me out of tight spots Loki don't die please I won't let you die)

He tries to summon Mjolnir, to run to his defense, to speak, to move, but finds he can't. None of them can do anything but watch.

It's clear that the enchantress's intention is to have his head off before the whole court, as she drags him to his knees and unsheathes a thin, cruel-looking knife. Amora digs the point into the back of Loki's neck and smiles a similarly sinister smile. The room has fallen silent but for the prince's ragged breaths. His posture is submissive, resigned, but his eyes are searching for a way out. Only there is no time.

(Oh Valhalla he's going to die what do I do Loki no)

Slowly, oh so slowly, she lifts the blade to strike-

"ENOUGH!" Thor isn't sure where the sound comes from at first until he sees his brother straighten, whirl around, Amora freezing where she is with the dagger poised above her head.

"You will have my head as promised, wench," he spits, as though the words bring a foul taste to his mouth. Loki looks grim, but his eyes take on a green hue like they always do at the reveal of a grand joke. "But my neck and my life I shall keep."

***

Stark Tower:

"Wait, so it worked?" Tony gasps through his laughter, "she just left?"

Thor smiles wide. "Indeed, Tony Stark." 

"No repercussions?"

The smile fades a bit. "Not exactly. She placed a silencing spell over his head that took near three years to unmake."

The inventor considers the idea briefly and his lips purse in distaste. "Not fun." 

"No."

But there are other questions to be asked. Clint provides them. "So how do you do it? Turn into an animal?"

"I do not remember." Thor gazes warily off into the middle distance. Honesty, Tony thinks, could the guy be any more transparent?

"C'mon Thor, tell us!" For the second time that night, Tony subjects him to the puppy dog eyes. 

Thor mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a naughty word. His two companions wonder briefly which of them he picked it up from before settling with Tony. They learn something new then, mainly that the god of wearing-hearts-on-sleeves is capable of actually keeping a secret. 

Usually when it involves Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on dA, although this is an updated version.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asgard never changes.

"But...but Pep..."

"Don't 'Pep' me, Tony. You promised that you would stop this."

The cheeky reply falls from his lips because oh yeah, he had promised that, hadn't he?Tony stares balefully at the empty glass in his hand for a moment, then back to Pepper. Her expression does not soften under the puppy-dog eyes, much to his disappointment.

Even when all three of them nail her with their best I-swear-we-aren't-drunk-please-pity-us looks (and honestly, all three hold their liquor like professionals, so they've gotten pretty good at giving these looks), the assistant-turned-CEO holds firm. Tony isn't sure whether to be annoyed or proud. When she rolls her eyes and makes to leave with the bourbon, he's leaning towards the former.

"It was his idea, Lady Potts." Oh, way to change tactics, Thor, Tony thinks, gasping indignantly at the absurd suggestion.

Apparently Pepper Potts has no room for sympathy in her cold, dead heart, and she leaves, taking the drink (and several backups) with her. Clint looks like he might actually cry, while Thor looks vaguely around for something to smash.

The inventor stands, running his fingers through already-ruffled hair, and bends to retrieve his emergency supply, because Pepper would actually kill him if Thor damages the azaleas and he really doesn't want to see Barton cry.

He enters the code. The compartment doesn't open.

"It appears that Miss Potts has revoked access to your 'backup-backup' liquor stash, Sir," Jarvis buzzes calmly and perhaps a bit smugly.

Well, damn.

***

Asgard never changes.

Loki comes to this conclusion quite suddenly, because he's been home for all of twenty or thirty seconds, but he figures it's justified since he's been three years in Alfheim breaking that accursed silencing spell and absolutely nothing has changed back home.

The halls are still golden and sprawling and huge. Sea spray still pounds the jagged cliffs on the borders of the city. (He can remember falling off a horse near those cliffs. He can't remember why, but the scars remain.) The city itself is still bustling and colorful, though apparently Loki has changed quite a bit because the people don't seem to recognize him.

Of course he's changed. He's been away from Asgard.

His rooms haven't changed, which is a good thing because it means no one has broken the defensive spells around it. Or perhaps no one cared enough to try. It's a bad thing because look at these dusty outdated spell books. It appears a trip to the Great Library is in order. Loki finds that the library hasn't changed much either, because it still has everything he needs.

The people haven't changed in his absence. Mother greets him with the same warm smile that he knows he will never outgrow. Father spares him a nod when he walks through the throne room during his little reconnaissance mission, and that's alright because he's meeting with foreign dignitaries about something or other that Loki doesn't want to get involved in. He's fairly sure it isn't his doing, but unless things have changed drastically he has a tendency to get the blame regardless. The perks of troublemaking, it seems.

Thor, of course, will never change. One could exile him to a realm as distant as Midgard, and he'd still come back, ready to bear hug his little brother and wrestle Sif or one of the warriors three or perhaps all of the above. 

Loki wanders into the training rooms and Thor calls his name jovially, though he has Fandral in a headlock and Loki can tell he's somewhat preoccupied. Still, the brothers drink each other in for a few moments. He has a beard. That's new and somewhat unexpected.

After a quick once-over, Thor drops the unfortunate warrior and pulls Loki into a hug. The trickster gives a chuckle and Thor looks relieved to hear him speak. "Loki! You look....taller!"

He supposes it's true that he's gained an inch or seven, but he really wasn't expecting to be taller than Thor. Still, as a citizen of Asgard, it only makes sense that Thor hasn't changed much. "And you hairier, dear brother," Loki remarks simply because he doesn't want to let the beard go just yet. Thor rubs his face questioningly before realization dawns. 

"Oh! Yes. Beard." Loki's smirk hasn't changed at least. Thor tries and fails to hide his embarrassment. Loki saunters vaguely towards the training ring, and then jerks suddenly. Volstagg gives a yell and Sif's eyes widen as the dagger flies straight at the elder prince. Thor barely has time to gasp before the dagger disappears in a cloud of green mist. He blinks it out of his eyes and stares at his brother in shock. Loki laughs, and his blue-green eyes are screwed tight with merriment.

"It was just a bit of fun, Thor," Loki chokes out. Though he sees it hasn't gone over quite as well as he'd hoped. Five pairs of eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and horror. Sif clutches instinctively at her hair as though expecting it to vanish beneath her fingers. Loki notes the brown-eyed man in the corner who simply cocks an amused eyebrow. He's new.

Thor chuckles vaguely in an attempt to relieve the tension that has settled over the room; he claps Loki on the back and applauds his skill. 

"It appears we have some catching up to do. I fear I must take my leave of you, friends." He marches up to Sif and attempts to peck her cheek. Instead he ends up on the floor. It's Loki's turn to raise an eyebrow as Thor blows her a kiss and follows him from the room.

"The lady Sif. You are lovers?" 

"Of a sort." Some days they are, others they are simply friends. Others they are partners-in-arms. Occasionally they fight. There really isn't a word to describe it. Loki nods, though, seeming to understand.

"And what about you? Made any conquests on Alfheim?" he teases. It's meant to be a joke since last he saw Loki never looks twice at women. But his eyes grow distant, and much to Thor's shock, he nods again.

He's changed so much, Thor thinks.

Loki has fallen silent. Thor wonders if it's become a habit to him after three years. Personally, he's worried about his brother; his tongue has always been his weapon of choice. 

The silence worries him. "What was her name?" Loki blinks, apparently shaken out of a reverie. 

"Sigyn."

***

He remembers everything about the little maiden; and yet he truly knew so little of her. He remembers her piercing blue gaze from his first silent days on the strange new world. The way she never seemed to stop watching and listening and drinking him in. So insatiably curious.

Forgotten, almost immediately in the rush of finding his temporary quarters and meeting with elven mages, none of whom seem able to lift the silencing spell placed on his tongue. It takes Loki too long to realize that he's been staying in her own village. The first time she appears it's only for a moment, so brief that Loki almost assumes she stumbles in by mistake. The door creaks open. Her clear eyes widen and he simply stares back, lifts an eyebrow but he can tell she sees through the defense mechanism. And then she's gone.

A month passes in his spartan quarters, and he finds himself no closer to his goal. He waits, alone, for something to happen, unable even to voice his frustration. Spells and runes and shady potions prove fruitless, and he wants to scream, needs to scream, cannot scream.

He knows that the maiden watches, though he doesn't know her name. Valhalla above, how he aches to be able to ask her name. 

Loki isn't sure what happens after that, only rage and pain and silent screaming. When he's used it all up and he's curled in the corner, hot tears running down his cheeks, the elven girl is there, azure eyes full of pity and mouth full of sweet, soft, comforting words.

He remembers how she comes every day from then on. How her brown hair tumbles down her shoulders, glinting gold as she sits and talks with him. Well, she talks. He listens hungrily, occasionally scribbling a reply in the margins of his notes. It happens more and more frequently, and before long Loki can't wait to see her, Sigyn, blue eyes and soft hair and gentle smile. Beautiful. 

He tells her (writes her) about Asgard, about his findings here on Alfheim and his newest attempts to regain use of his tongue. They grow more outlandish by the week, and the second prince suffers hand cramps on top of that.

"I can't imagine it will succeed, Loki." 

He sighs. It makes no noise. _In all likelihood, it will fail. But I have to try._

"I yearn to hear your voice, my prince."

_I yearn to speak, Sigyn. Silence is torture to a silver tongue._

She is quiet for some time. When she speaks again, her voice is low and soft. "Perhaps... we might find another use for your gifted tongue?" He thinks he might laugh at her boldness, given the ability. But her crystal gaze fills him with heat and he knows he would not.

They know, when her pink lips meet his silent ones, what they have cannot last. But it doesn't stop either of them from enjoying it.

***

Thor scratches the nape of his neck absentmindedly, for once aware of his brother's need for silence. But, of course, he is Thor, so..."Where is she now?" 

Loki shoots him an incredulous stare, and he mumbles something resembling an apology.

"She's married."

Oh.

***

It takes nine hundred and twenty-four days, three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-six seconds, but he breaks the spell.

The thread weaves in and out, fine as a gossamer strand of spider's web. Each tiny movement sends a fresh wave of pain through him, and with each ragged, silent breath he curses Amora. Tiny drops of blood run down his chin as he works, forcing himself to keep moving the fiber in, out, in, out, sealing his cursed lips and binding the sorceress's magic. 

When the last knot is tied, Loki manages an internal sigh of relief. Now all that remains is to - by Nidhogg's poisonous breath, the pain! He forces down a wave of nausea, lifting the runed knife and slicing the stitches in his lips one by one. If anything, it's even worse than sewing them shut in the first place, blood dribbling out with each shaky breath. 

Snip, snip. 

"- carve out her organs and make her EAT them, the vindictive, spiteful bitch-!" He gasps out, voice cracking and tense from lack of use. Immediately, he claps his hands to his throat in disbelief.

The first words Loki has spoken in nine hundred and twenty-four days, three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-six seconds. It's the most beautiful feeling he can imagine. 

The day passes in a whirl of healing spells and screams and laughter. He says everything and anything he wants, feels the vibrations of his vocal cords with delirious joy, because sanity is never something the younger prince has claimed to possess.

Evening falls, and with it comes the promise of another visit. Blue-green eyes sparkle with the resolve to surprise her, and so he bites back a greeting when the door creaks open to admit Sigyn. Her blue eyes fill with concern at the dried blood discoloring his chin, which he had almost forgotten about. "Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head, smiling wide.

"Did you make any progress?"

 _A bit._ He conjures the answer to form on the white skin of his palms as he's learned to do.  If nothing else, he's spared the cramps. Loki  but sees her mind is somewhere else. 

"Loki, I... I'm getting married. To Theoric. Tomorrow."

He's known all along about her engagement. She confided in him when they first became...friends? Lovers? Something like that. It doesn't make it sting any less. They spend a few minutes in silence, staring at the bare floor, then at each other. 

Loki swallows, careful not to make any sound. He closes his hands. Opens them. The message changes. _I suppose this is the end, then. Sigyn._

Blue eyes fill with tears. She hasn't moved from the doorway. "I'm sorry it has to end like this."

Close. Reopen. _Don't be._

The sunset casts a golden glow on the walls. It seems poetic, in a bitter way.

"Goodbye, my prince." 

He weighs the odds, then opens his mouth. "Goodbye, Sigyn."

Strange that his first words to her should also be his last.

***

He leans precariously over the balcony, drinking in Asgard's perpetual golden glow, dimly aware of Thor speaking in the background. He's missed this.

The marble is cool under his hands. The air is crisp and carries the taste of Idunn's apples. The sun glistens off the water far below, and over the distant peaks Valhalla sparkles. Thor regales him with stories of grand adventures, some of which make him laugh and some of which make him glad he was absent. Loki hears the rumbling beginnings of a feast come together below them, in part to celebrate his return, but mostly because the Aesir appreciate good mead. 

The same as it has always been. Because Asgard never really changes, and even if Loki does, there will never be a time when he will not be glad to call this place home.

Home.

"I missed you, Thor."

***  
Stark Tower:

The former merchant of death sits, silent and contemplative for once in his life. The light and sound and glaring energy of the city is drowned out by the one burning question he dares not ask.

What went wrong?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a worthy replacement, and this bites Loki deepest of all. In base nature, he sees himself in Balder's quiet words and searching gaze, in his proud stance most comfortable in shadows. Loki knows that Balder the Bright is on some level equal to Balder the Cunning. 
> 
> He admires him, but does not trust. Anyone so like him has to be hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which the author takes an abundance of creative license--again. Sorry about that, it'll stop soon enough.
> 
> On the plus side, I think the further I get into this work, the better my writing gets. I've been writing this since...oh, God. July, I think--right now I'm growing the balls to finish chapter 8, whereupon the lovely Olihmajor will work her beta magic. 
> 
> Now might be a good time to mention that I actually don't own these characters. Or Norse mythology.

three  
The first time he begs the universe to allow his homeworld a change comes the next morning before the crack of dawn. Because Thor is, as ever, an early riser. And entirely inconsiderate of others' sleeping patterns.  
"LOKI! Brother! We depart for the hunt anon!" he bellows through the door, which remains surprisingly intact. Groaning, the youngest prince lifts his head from the pillow, glances at the door, and promptly goes back to sleep.  
In the end, it takes the combined efforts of the Warriors Three, several of the palace guards, and Queen Frigga to open the door, and even then only the Allmother dares enter."Loki, I know you are awake."   
He mumbles and stuffs his head beneath feather pillows. 

Frigga smiles at her second son. (Unlike Odin, she never feels the need to distance herself from the boy, remind herself constantly of his origins. She knows the value of family.) "What was that, dear?"

He lifts his head from the cocoon of sheets. "I was merely expressing my distaste for mornings in general. Is it even morning?" 

She laughs warmly, deciding against informing Loki of his terrific bedhead. "I am afraid so, though the sun has yet to realize it."

He sits up stiffly, and Frigga suddenly realizes that perhaps her son has grown unused to sleeping alone.

"And what could Thor possibly want with me at this wretched hour?"

"What do you think? A glorious hunt!" she says in her best imitation of her elder son. (All in fun, of course.) Loki groans again and mock-collapses against her. Frigga pulls him into a hug, noting how tall he has grown.

"He never changes," Loki complains, though the heart has gone out of it. The Allmother's love brings out the morning person in everything.

"Oh, you would be surprised, dear, the things that change about a person." Flash. Blue light and red blood and a cruel, jagged, unhinged smile. The vision fades in less than a second. Not fast enough.

"Mother? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I..." She shakes her head, cursing her Sight. The doorknob rattles eagerly. "Your brother waits, Loki."

He sighs, apparently out of groans for the time being, stretches, and vanishes quickly to the breakfast hall.

Frigga sits alone, deep in thought.

***

Sif is many things. 

She is brave, and strong, and never backs down from a fight. Arrogant, perhaps, and quick to anger; qualities none find fault with in a man. Not qualities prized in a woman, typically. But Lady Sif is many things, not typical.The average woman would have learned a sword lesson or two and left well enough alone, certain in relying on husbands or fathers or sons to fight. Sif is special. Sif is unique because she is standing outside the doors of the main banquet hall, and it's not even sunrise, and she's just knocked down the crown prince of Asgard.

Thor rubs his jaw gingerly, then stands to his feet. Sif refuses to meet his gaze, boring holes in the alabaster wall with her eyes. 

Sif is many things. Forgiving is not one of those things. "He is not coming with us."

"Sif-" he pleads, and she wants to punch him again but she doesn't really want to be imprisoned for it.

"No. I will not allow it. He is a thief and a liar and-" He chooses this moment to appear.

"Trickster. Don't forget trickster," Loki interjects, always the one to ensure the continual use of his ever-growing list of titles. He's chewing mildly on an apple, pointedly ignoring Sif's glares.

She thinks that perhaps it's Loki she wants to punch. 

Of the trio, Thor is the only one who seems surprised at Loki's sudden entrance. So, of course, it's Thor the trickster addresses.  
"Brother, you didn't warn me I would be given such a warm welcome!"

Sif is blunt when she needs to be. "You. Cut. Off. My. Hair." Each word is accompanied by a jab at the offending creature's chest.

Loki offers a small half-bow in the lady warrior's direction, suppressing a yawn. "As much as I enjoy your radiant company, Lady Sif, I'm afraid my present quarrel lies with this oaf who deems it necessary to awaken me before dawn the day after a feast for the sake of fraternal bonding!" Even Sif is put off by the venom in his tone, and Sif is not easily shaken.

"We do not depart alone, brother. Even such warriors as we two would be hard pressed to take down a bilgesnipe alone. The warriors three and milady Sif would join us."

"And you felt it appropriate to drag me along?"

Sif is not patient. "If you do not wish to come along, then by all means, stay here." Thor shoots her a glare. She smacks his arm.

Loki merely smiles and sinks his teeth slowly into the flesh of the apple. His green eyes (or are they blue?) bore straight into her. Sif stares him down calmly. Thor looks uncomfortable. 

The silence transforms from awkward to downright dangerous. Sif is many things, not a coward. But neither is she a fool. Backing down is a thing of honor. Of respect due to the prince. This is what she tells herself as she shifts her gaze and leaves the room with a smooth, even stride.

Loki turns to his brother, sending him a grin of approval. "I like her," he says.

***

They walk down to the stables together, Thor's arm slung over his brother's shoulder, and they talk, mainly about Asgard, and Alfheim, and what happened there. Loki does not venture to speak of how the enchantment was lifted, but Thor sees the white scars around his mouth, not fully healed.

There's an underlying sense of awkwardness, of a shift neither one quite knows how to approach. But Thor has never claimed the ability to understand these sorts of things. 

Loki stands taller and walks prouder than before. He does not seem a shadow among shadows, but rather a dangerous sort of one who would disappear if you looked at him from the wrong angle. He carries himself with an obvious power bubbling under the surface. Thor refuses to admit that his brother is taller than him. 

He is by no means a morning person, and never has been, but apparently ruffling Sif's feathers has put Loki in a rather good mood.

Norns, he's missed that smile.

Thor throws open the stable doors to let in the first light of dawn, booming, "Friends! The sons of Odin have arrived!"

Volstagg greets them with a merry cry. Hogun smiles, a deadly sharp-toothed affair. Fandral winks and throws his arms out good-naturedly. "Thor! Loki! What in the realms kept you?"

"Loki had it in his head to sleep through this hunt." Thor chuckles.

"I was simply recovering from the journey. Alfheim is a long way away," the dark-haired prince says smoothly, before greeting his mount with the remains of his apple.

Thor's hearty chuckle becomes a laugh, nearly drowning out the cool, quiet voice behind them. "I did not think use of the Bifrost could prove half so tiring. Unless you've found another way...?"

Loki freezes, genuinely startled. He turns, slowly, to meet the fiery brown eyes of the speaker. 

"Ah! I had forgotten you have never met!" Thor claps his brother on the arm, gesturing to the man with the cool voice. "Brother, this is Balder the Brave. He has seen us through many a fight in your absence (Loki flinches), and I thought it only fair to bring him along as well."

"It is an honor, my prince." Balder bows; his long hair, bound back, still sweeps across his shoulder at the action.

"The honor is mine, of course."   
Loki's speech is clipped, and he looks rather wary. It's uncommon to see him so shaken. But he rights himself, smiling and taking the offered hand. 

Thor pays his brother little mind, hoping he can settle any unpleasantness on his own. There are more pressing matters on his mind, and besides, it looks as though it might rain.

***

They call him Balder the Brave, Balder the Bright, Balder the Beautiful, because there's nothing like a little alliteration from time to time. He's bright in many senses, all of them make him a worthy opponent. Intelligent, of course. And glorious. He glows with an intense internal fire. They call him Balder the Bright, and the title fits him.

He used to dream of death. He'd feel the bite of swords, daggers, arrows, poison, everything; and wake with the blood pounding in his ears, arm half outstretched to the Valkyrie. They called him Balder the Brave, and he was anything but worthy of the title.

And then it stopped. After all, when one cannot die, one no longer need fear death. He is Brave, and indeed has more reason for it than most.

They call him Balder the Beautiful, Most Shining of the gods. At first glance, it’s hard to tell why. And perhaps he is plain in looks, in every aspect but one. His eyes, sparkling with the light of a hundred thousand suns, entice all. They call him Beautiful, and think the title fits him best of all.  
Many forget that he is also Balder the Bright, Balder who does not tell all that his glorious eyes see.

He is a worthy replacement, and this bites Loki deepest of all. In base nature, he sees himself in Balder's quiet words and searching gaze, in his proud stance most comfortable in shadows. Loki knows that Balder the Bright is on some level equal to Balder the Cunning. 

He admires him, but does not trust. Anyone so like him has to be hiding something.

***

The thing about Balder, he realizes, is that he does not bleed. 

A stunning concept, to be sure. Beyond even Loki's broad scope of imagination. Nearly. But Balder Bright-Eyes makes no attempt to conceal it. But neither (crawling through a thick gorse-patch unscathed) does he give any sort of explanation. Which does more to ease the trickster's doubts than he wishes.

Loki (and indeed the rest of the party) nurse numerous tiny scratches. Loki leads them through another thicket just to be sure. Balder grins calmly as the thorns scrape and sting against the younger Odinson's pale skin.   
A second proof comes at high noon, once the group has broken to luncheon by a rippling stream. 

Loki half-watches as Thor's companions and friends (not his. Never his) stand ankle-deep in the clear water and spar. Balder steps up, unsheathing his sword. Fandral laughs, mirroring his stance. Loki watches much more intently.

Though he has previously thought Fandral the talented swordsman, Balder the Bright is a new force. The match is anything but even. Balder is the clear master, eyes glinting as he dances away from each blind swing. Fandral has been upset no less than seven times (a miracle in and of itself), when he finally lands a blow. And what a blow! But the other swordsman takes it in stride, stepping back smoothly and thwacking his opponent across the head with the flat of his blade. Fandral topples into the water yet again. 

"Don't get distracted!" he directs calmly at the spluttering Aesir, bringing his sword down and leaning against it. Loki stares because Balder is unharmed. A long gash in the blueish stuff of his tunic is the only indication that a blow was even landed.

Balder does not bleed. Loki joins in the unspoken game when they start travelling again, pelting his back with small rocks or branches or bones. None make a mark. He doubts even the mighty Mjolnir would break him. 

They find no game, ultimately, and settle down at the bank of the rippling stream, since grown into a mighty river. 

Thor builds a fire to rival the largest of halls, perhaps even those of Valhalla, said to be birthed in the heart of dying stars. Loki relishes the war of the blaze against his face and the cool night air at his back. 

Stories are told, mostly on the part of Volstagg. Long they may be, but the man has an aptitude for tales that rival that of Loki himself. Ever one to dislike a rival, he finds himself exploiting each inconsistency and flaw he sees. His companions tire of this game quickly. 

"Enough, brother," Thor interjects once the stars are out in full blaze, "Put action to your words. You will not have Volstagg's tales, entertain us yourself!"

He smiles, stands, bows, making no reply but a single word, Ælven in nature. _Burn-bright_. The fire surges upwards with a roar, causing all but Hogan to jump back, alarmed.

It calls to him with many voices; chaotic, untamable, beautiful. More beautiful than Balder could ever hope to be. He answers, swaying with it hypnotically, taking note of his companions' awed faces. A curtain of flame forms around him, a gentle and deadly blanket. Loki serenades it, reveling in the gentle touch against his skin. He dances with the fire.

Danger hovering on every breath, the center of the chaos, both controlling and controlled by it. Here is Loki in his truest nature. 

He strikes out, suddenly, one with the fire. It spirals away, angry at the loss, and engulfs Balder where he stands. Balder does not burn.

Loki's fire holds the light of a thousand suns. Balder's brown eyes flare with the power and intensity of a hundred thousand. He laughs, and joins with Loki in his fiery dance until only ashes remain.

***

The Allmother walks his dreams tonight. 

Loki finds himself in her gardens in the coolness of twilight. He sits, cross-legged, surrounded with the comforting smell of roses and tea. Familiar and safe, even though it is not real.

"Mother," he hears himself say.  
Frigga's frown is a thing he feels rather than sees.  She is in front of him now, clothed in light linens and billowing silk. She is worried, tight lines readable around her eyes and mouth.

"I need to show you something. Do relay it to your brother." Her voice is milk and honey. He stands above her and yet feels small enough to cuddle in close as always.

"A message?"

"A warning." With this, she grasps Loki by the shoulder, entering his mind too suddenly. The scene changes.

Two figures stand in darkness, outlines barely visibly against a flickering red light. The source, a waxy nub of candle hangs suspended in midair. The room reeks of magic. The shorter figure, a woman, is a sorceress. Her hair is blonde and her eyes are grey. Loki clenches incorporeal fists as he recognizes Lady Amora. The scars on his lips sting. A cloak hides the other figure, but the way he holds himself it appears to be a man.

"So this is the task you set me to." Definitely a man. His voice strikes a familiar chord. "It is no easy feat, Amora."

She smiles. "You will prove yourself, I'm sure." Her eyes flash scarlet again as she casts a (finalizing?) spell. He gasps.  
Amora grabs his left wrist and holds a long finger to it. It makes a sickening hiss of a noise, like a sear.

"What is this?" He seems alarmed. Loki frowns, unable to place the voice.

"Oh, don't worry. I simply like to stake my claim." She smiles dangerously. She inspects her work by the candlelight. A small inky snake is printed across the wrist. Amora strokes it with a long finger, and it hisses again, slithering under the skin of the unfortunate man. "And I trust you shall remember where your loyalties lie, or she will bite." 

She gives a mad titter of a laugh. The man pulls his wrist away. "I will do as you have asked me. I've come too far for anything else."

"Good, good." Amora turns and snuffs out the candle nub, darkness enveloping them completely. "You will see them both dead?"

Loki has a sickening feeling he knows who she speaks of. The cloaked man replies. "Of course, milady. I have no bar with the thunderer. The younger one, though, he could prove harder to kill."

Her voice rings out again, sparking a well of hatred in Loki. "The trickster? He is no opponent to one such as you. He thinks too much of himself. He is but a liar and a fool."

Liar. Fool. Trickster. The words buzz in his ears like omens of death. That's not far from the truth for once.

The door creaks open, a blinding ray of moonlight piercing the blackness as the cloaked figure exits stage right. Where has he heard that voice before?

Oh. OH.

The Allmother places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I fear this danger is upon you even now, my son. Perhaps closer than I have guessed."

That makes two of us. He turns to reply, question half-formed on his lips, but the cry of a horn jolts him awake first.

***

The horn blows at the first light of dawn. Sif is up in a second, spear in hand. The battle cry rings out again, this time closer than before. Her cry of "To arms!" proves unnecessary. She is among Asgard's most skilled young warriors, and all of them are on their feet in an instant. 

Balder, it seems, has proven ever the early riser, gone already.   
Sif dodges through the trees nimbly as a third cry pierces the air. Loki is right on her heels as the two burst through the underbrush right into a trap.  
A few dozen or so dark elves encircle the pair within an instant. 

Sif moves instinctively back to back with the sorcerer, hoping against hope that this isn't some foolish prank of his. She strikes out first, landing a direct hit against a helmet. Not Sif's best move, but in her defense she was asleep a minute and a half hence.   
Sif smiles as the elf swings blindly with his pike. Apparently they received a rude awakening as well. 

"Loki, if this is one of your tricks-"

"Unfortunately not, my dear Sif. But I shall keep the idea in mind. On your left!"

She blocks the unseen blow and counters it with one of her own, knocking the dark elf to the ground. Well, Sif considers, they make an unexpectedly good team. Not that she'd ever dare admit it.

Functional team or no, the fact remains that odds are odds, and theirs are not good odds. The elves have the element of surprise in their favor, and numbers, and it's all Sif can to to keep both she and her ally in one piece. Everywhere she turns she comes face to face with another dark-skinned and heavily armed opponent. Loki does his best to help but there is only...  
So much two can handle alone and...  
There are enemies...  
Everywhere.  
And Sif turns and...  
Turns.  
Swings her staff and...  
Can't think so tired dizzy need help need something need anything.

At which point, of course, the warriors three deign to make an entrance at last. Sif grins and poleaxes a burly specimen on her right. He doesn't go down quietly.  
Seven to one. Now these are odds Sif can handle.

In the midst of battle as they are, it takes a long time for the realization to sink in. In fact, it's surprising they figured it out so quickly. Well, not really, because it's Loki who voices the question first. (Spin. Kick.) "Where is Thor?" His voice is light as though he wasn't currently knee-deep in elven blood, but instead has just popped in on a whim. 

Sif's brow curls in thought. Fandral cuts in with a timely but also probably true quip regarding the Aesir prince's ability to indeed sleep through an entire fight.

Loki laughs. Laughs. Honestly outright laughs as a blade narrowly avoids separating his head from his neck. 

"And Balder?" He wouldn't sleep through a fight. He's not called Balder the Brave for nothing. The last bit is implied because Hogun has a speech quota for the day and he's used up half his words already. 

It's a fair point. Sif twists out of another elf's vicelike grip and snaps his neck. She glances around sparingly, and then groans."Where in the nine realms has Loki disappeared to?"

***

_"Where is Thor?"_

_"Probably snoring away if I know him at all! Milord Thunderer would not have his beauty sleep disturbed for such a trivial matter as this!”_

_"And Balder?"_

Oh Norns, Loki thinks, it's a decoy.

***

He wakes to a pair of bright eyes inches from his own and the echo of his own name in his ears. "Th- oh, good, you're awake! I was worried for a moment- but you must get up!" Balder's hands are on either side of his face, the pressure causing him to blink, disoriented.

Norns, it's too early for this. Thor Odinson shakes out of his grip, cradling his head gently. He tries to voice a sullen complaint. What comes out of his mouth is, "Wharglstragejdahh."

He's never claimed to be a morning person. Or, well, it depends on whether or not he slept at all. Really, Thor just isn't a waking-up-happy sort of person regardless of the time of day. The ability to form a complete thought returns slowly, but Balder is pulling him to his feet long before he has a chance to use it. "Hurry, my prince, please hurry!"

"Balder, why--?" His head hurts like a bitch.

"It's Loki." Oh Norns, he thinks for the fifth time in a minute and a half. Balder grasps him by the shoulders firmly. "He's gone."

Well, if that does not serve to awaken him, nothing will. "Gone? Gone where?"

"If I knew, Thor, I would tell you. Sif and the rest are out searching for him, I stayed to wake you."

"We will join them, find him--!"

"NO!" Balder shouts. Thor stares at him, shock coloring his blue eyes. "No," he repeats, softer this time. "We may yet find a clue as to his whereabouts. Here."

The eldest prince's cheeks color in shame. What Balder says only makes sense. He runs a hand through his hair. "Oh. I suppose we must begin our search, then." Something catches his eye suddenly. "What is that?"

Balder follows his gaze to the black snake branded into the skin of his wrist. "That? Nothing of importance. Just a tattoo. It has always been there." Has it? He cannot recall ever...right. Loki. 

The problem is that nobody in the nine realms can find his brother when he does not wish to be found. Thor swallows, turning to watch the trees. He narrows his eyes, willing some sign to appear. Distantly. He hears a gentle snick, but doesn't regard it. 

"Why would he simply disappear?" Thor muses. 

"It doesn't add up, does it?" Balder's speech is almost a whisper. It sends a sudden chill down Thor's spine. "From what I've heard, things rarely do with the trickster involved. Your brother is an excellent liar. I could learn a thing or two from him."

Thor raises an eyebrow, confused. "What are you talking about? Do you know where he is?"

"Then again, perhaps I do not need to learn anything from the god of lies. Perhaps I am a good enough liar as it is. I fooled you easily enough. But then you are so easy to fool, o mighty thunderer." His deep voice takes on a new, dark edge, flinging the title at his back with biting ire.

"Balder. Where is my brother?" Thor growls, opening a palm to summon Mjolnir.

He laughs. "Dead, if all goes to plan. Do not worry, you'll see him again soon enough."

Thor whirls around, calling his hammer and swinging it in one motion. Balder's sword meets it with a deafening clang, halting the arc. Thor gives a cry of confusion and anger. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach. "What is this?"

"Foolish boy. You cannot hurt me. Nothing can. My mistress is more powerful than you could imagine!" He laughs again, but it's the same innocent, merry laugh he always gives. Balder's eyes shine as he twists the weapon expertly, sending the hammer flying. Thor strikes out blindly. The punch lands square on his jaw, should snap his neck but instead only makes the prince swear in Norse and clutch at his hand. The butt of the sword crashes into his head.

Thor falls to the ground, the silver sword an hairsbreadth away from his heart. Balder smiles brightly, beautifully, bravely. His mouth opens in a taunting leer and stays open, gaping silently as the short wooden blade protrudes from his chest.

"Mistletoe. Wonderful for breaking curses, I've found," Loki says, drawing the rune-carved knife out with a wet sucking noise. The light in Balder's eyes snuffs out, his lifeblood pouring out in rivers and staining Loki's hands crimson. The color does not suit him. 

Thor is dimly aware that his head is bleeding sluggishly where Balder struck him, but as it seems apparent he will live, he ignores it, pulling his brother into a warm embrace. 

"Thor." He expects a reprimand. None is forthcoming. "This may be the single worst hunt I have ever experienced. We should go home."

Thor smiles. "I suppose the bilgesnipe can wait."

***  
Stark Tower:

Tony fingers the space where his glass had been, resisting the urge to stand up and punch something. Because the more he listens, the more he starts to think: about Loki, about Thor, about himself. And he can't drink himself into a stupor over it. Because goddammit, he was not just pitying the villain right there. Sure, that Balder bastard deserved everything he got, that doesn't mean Loki was justified in stabbing him. 

Really though, Tony thinks about this Balder guy, and he thinks about Phil, and he wonders how screwed up everything got to turn Thor's little brother into the monster he knows.

It looks like Clint has passed out. Not surprising. He's no experienced drinker like Tony, nor does he have Thor's godlike stamina. But that makes it worse because he and Thor could totally have a pity-party right now and go all "poor Loki" and Clint wouldn't care. But Tony wants some kind of a moral compass NOW before he actually starts said pity-party.  
Quick. Loki's flaws, go. Liar, murderer, total sociopath, arrogant beyond reason, cares only for himself and shit, isn't this just like looking in a mirror. So what's the difference? Where's the line between Tony and Loki? 

Well, the billionaire considers, he has a brother, for one thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it shows he has self-destructive tendencies, that every once in awhile the spider constructs his web sloppily for the sheer joy of watching it tumble down around him. Maybe it's more subconscious than that, he thinks. Maybe it's a different plan of his that he's caught himself up in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay double update! You may kiss my feet in adoration.
> 
> Personal favorite chapter because Angrboda.

"...as you can imagine, it was quite a shock, for me especially, to find it missing-"

"Thor."

"-no one could tell what had happened, but it was probably the fault of some great sorcerer. It was just gone. But my clever brother borrowed the Allmother's falcon cloak, and with it-"

"THOR. BUDDY," Tony snaps, banging his hand against the arm of his chair for emphasis. Thor's jaw snaps shut, then creaks open again.

"Yes, my friend?"

"Um, I...I think Clint's asleep or something. He hasn't moved in, like, half an hour; I don't think that's healthy. I mean sleep is healthy but if he's not and he just spent half an hour perched on the balcony like that - "

"For the love of god, Tony, shut up." Hawkeye doesn't even bother with turning around. Probably a good thing, he's squatting, balanced on the tips of his booted feet with the rest suspended high over New York. Kind of a one-small-movement-equals-  
death scenario, not that the inventor has much experience with that sort of thing. Ha ha.

"Oh. Well I guess he is awake. Barton, I really don't think that should be physically possible."

"I don't have to put up with your crap unless I get alcohol for it, Stark," he says it as though it's Tony's fault his PA has a life goal to tear his relationship with the liquor cabinet to shreds. Speaking of which, they'll all have some pretty impressive headaches tomorrow, won't they? God, why is Thor still speaking?

"And let me tell you, Man of Iron, you would not believe how much a bridal gown chafes the nether regions of--"

"Wait, I'm sorry. WHAT?"

***

four

The morning of the day before he dies dawns bright and clear. Thor wakens slowly, becoming aware of the dark hair sprawled across the pillow beside him. Carefully, carefully, he cards his fingers through it, gently so as not to rouse her. It's one of those mornings where everything is right with the world.

Sif moans, stretching lazily like a cat. He smiles, tracing meaningless words between her shoulder blades. She, less of a morning person even than Loki, jabs a sharpened elbow into his ribs, which puts a bit of a damper on things. Thor watches his lover lazily as she moves about the room, dressing and smoothing her tousled dark hair. Not a word is exchanged between them as she slips from the room again.

Eventually Thor gets around to rousing himself, though to say he dressed himself would take it too far. He is a firm believer in the concept of nudity whenever and wherever possible, which is perhaps too common a habit in Asgard. A golden apple and a tunic later, it dawns on him that something is amiss. Something significant, yet something small enough to go unnoticed until it's too late. He can't place it, though. Thor just sort of stands there and scratches the nape of his neck. Deduction is entirely not his area. In fact, it's much more common of....

"Loki,” he muses sullenly. Alright, he has the who but still not the what. He paces the room, then crosses the threshold to the rest of his chambers.

Wait. The door. Thor distinctly remembers leaving it open. Yes. He walked in last night, propped it open with Mjolnir, and then Sif...well, never mind about that now. What's important is that the door is closed, and Mjolnir....

His hammer is nowhere to be found.

***

Long have the ice-winds of the north blown through the halls of Thrym-Lord son of Helblindi. Long have they stilled even the heart of the innermost chambers with cold. Each color is a muted variation of blue or grey or pearly white, for as far as the ice-winds blow. A desirable climate for a noble household, one that the giant has pledged his life to defending. Laufey-King himself often hovers on the outskirts of Thrym-Lord's lands, and looks inwards with envy. But as long as the ice-winds blow across such a lonely stead as that of Thrym, the sun is dark to his eyes and he finds no relief in the cold nor all that he has nor even the sweet promise of revenge that beats in the hearts of all his race.

Long and lonely are his days, silent and still, though he stands in the heart of an ice-storm. Thrym-Lord searches for something undefinable to his kind, for warmth of a sort.

Thrym-Lord finds his warmth on a brisk morn of ice-winter (there are only two seasons on Jotunheim, frost-winter and ice-winter). He raises his eyes to the south, where layers of frost and magik and space separate his frozen existence from the great warmth, from the blood of men and gods. The enemy, the ones who took the warmth for themselves and left Laufey-King to rule the slowly dying.

He feels a piece of the great warmth break off, like a shining apple fallen from Idunn's tree. Thrym feels his searching part pull at it mightily, feels the warmth draw near. It answers, shattering the boundaries between worlds like so much ice.

There comes a hiss of steam that battles against the ice-wind for a moment. An easy victory for the cold. Thrym-Lord the Jotun feels his searching fulfilled as he gazes upon his prize.

The warm-blood hammer rests in the cloven ice of the chamber floor, still humming softly its song of long-coveted power. Warmth.

***

"Behold, the glory of the Odinson," Loki taunts at the first sight of his distraught sibling.

"Hold your jibes, brother. There is a jest of yours that grows too long."

"A jest of mine? You mean...ah, but don't you think her hair looks better this way?"

Frown. "What are you talking about?"

"...nothing. Nothing at all."

"Loki-!"

"Peace, I meant no harm by it."

"No harm? Is that what you call it? Mjolnir is missing, and you claim you mean no harm?"

Blink. Silence. "...by the Tree, Thor, your jest is not near as amusing as you seem to find it."

"I do not jest! The hammer is nowhere to be found!"

"Brother...."

"Where have you taken it?"

"I seem to remember rather distinctly not being deemed...what was it father said- worthy? - to wield your weapons, Thor." Bitter words. Bitter smile.

"Yes, because you are a liar and a thief!"

"Look around you, Thor! No one in this hall, in all the nine realms, could have laid a finger on your hammer. Not even father. Not me! Perhaps you've left it under a table somewhere for the serving maids to trip over it."

"I tell you that Mjolnir has been stolen!"

"And I tell you it was not I who stole it!"

"So you admit that it was stolen?"

A long pause. "It is possible." Stubborn ass.

"Well, then, aid me in reclaiming it!"

Blink. "...certainly, in a moment. Back off a bit, and kindly remove your fingers from my throat. Do take care not to tear my soul from my body, dear brother."

He folds lithe legs beneath his torso in a complicated knot, quite suddenly. Thor winces to think of attempting it. Perthro - initiation - a whisper and a movement, and Loki is searching. Green eyes blink open-shut-open-shut in a rapid-fire torrent as he stares into the space between worlds.

Not what Thor expected, but it will have to do. He waits, as quietly and carefully as he is able, aware that any disturbance now would have deadly repercussions. Loki explained the particulars of astral projection to him, once, many years ago. Thor still has nightmares about it, night terrors where an empty husk of a person lurks, mouth open in an endless silent scream. Magic is awful. Thor would take a sturdy hammer and a warrior's death over a spell and a soul-ripping miscalculation any day.

Oh. Right. No hammer.

"Well, now that is strange." Green eyes meet his blue and still. Thor waits. "It appears that you are right, dear brother."

Fists clench. "Where is it, Loki?"

"Tell me, Thor, how do you feel about a little...rule-bending?"

***  
Queens, New York City, approximately one hour ago:

"...ki. There was this guy from the other day in my yoga class, looked just like him."

"The supervillain?"

"I guess. I dunno, he's kinda hot-" He groans, then makes a mental note to wear a disguise to the next yoga session. Next.

"...oki has to be planning a double-cross, as usual."

"You knew as much when you made the deal. Play with fire and you get burnt, Doctor."

"I really thought the trickster had learned his lesson. What does he hope to gain through deserting the plan?"

"Sheer bloody-minded enjoyment, I expect."

"We'll see how much he enjoys a dagger in the back..." Oh. Well, it seems that it's high time he abandons that particular project. Next, he motions, sipping idly at his champagne.

"...he is my brother. And he has saved my life many times." Oh, not again. He'll have to find another way to keep this idiot busy, and soon.

"Doubtful. Name me five occasions where Reindeer Games has saved your ass. Just five."

"It is a bargain, Son of Howard." Oh, and Stark, too. Delightful. Just what he gets for placing a tracking ward on his name. Next, he thinks as he sinks further into the plush chaise lounge. There is nothing else. Thor continues to talk. Loki half-listens as he continues drinking his champagne.

"The first time he saved my life, Loki was nine and I was thirteen..."

***

Thor is, for once, not up for a spot of rule-breaking. Neither is Odin. The Allfather looks sternly down on the pair when they enter the throne room. Loki bows respectfully, Thor does nothing. Well, nothing helpful or conducive to the plan, at least. "Mjolnir has been stolen."

Huginn and Muninn have evidently been in flight all morning, because Father looks slightly--slightly-- less horrified than Loki initially expected. Perhaps Mother had a vision. Odin fixes his second son with a look. "You have searched for it?"

Loki nods, but remains silent. Again, Thor does not. "The Jotuns are responsible. They hold the hammer."

"Then it is lost."

"Father."

He stands, Gungnir clangs against the marble. "We have a treaty to uphold. Bringing threats to Jotunheim will end only in war."

Thor stamps his feet. "Then let it! We defeated them once before!"

Father stares them both down. "This discussion is over--over, Thor. Leave me." Odin is no fool. He watches Loki, and only Loki as the brothers exit stage left.

***

The cry of the falcon rends the silence that cloaks the skies around the great city. Perched comfortably between the northern turrets and shielded from the battering wind, the sharp-eyed bird scans the horizon. Like Heimdall, or Huginn or Muninn, it watches.

The falcon listens. Perhaps birds are not known for their exceptional hearing, and this breed of falcon is no different, but this one, it hears something. It waits a while, but with a still urgent air about it.

Then, quite suddenly, the falcon flies, clearing the northern turrets with a sweeping of its gray-blue wings. Another cry pierces the quiet as the falcon vanishes entirely.

***

The woman walks the deep-woods with a languid sense of purpose. Lithe fingers trail behind her, ghosting over each overhanging twig that reaches out to tangle a lock of red hair or mark her pale skin as she walks on. She is barefooted, with a thick wolf pelt slung across her shoulders and white bones decorating wrists and ankles. These jangle softly with each light step.

The witch - for of course she is a witch - never stops nor slows in her descent. She picks her way over fallen logs and through thicket and copse. The rhythmic jangle of her ornaments stays constant, the only clear sound to be heard, a gentle (clink, clink, clink). Her heart plays a drumbeat that nobody hears, a (thud, thud, thud) that keeps perfect time.  
She comes, at length, to a clearing surrounded on all sides by tall, dark trees that seem to be made of iron or some metal unknown to the earth. Her hair, though tamed with strips of leather and the odd bone, seems ready to burst from its prison like the leaves of fall. The witch stops.

The cry of a falcon sounds, perched now on her shoulder. The witch - a rather beautiful witch - smiles. She soothes the dark feathers with a finger, taming them to the extent of her own mess of color. A hood is pulled back, and another figure stands before the woman with a grey-blue cloak tumbling across his shoulders. She laughs, voice thick and dark and strange. "You will do yourself harm one day, running about like this."

The figure adjusts dark hair and straightens the falcon-feather cloak. "Flying, technically." He leans forward - the witch is tall, he is taller - and claims her lips in a kiss. The bones jangle.

"I have no time to waste-"

"You never do."

"But I need your help." Loki runs his thumb across her rigid cheekbone as he speaks. The witch-woman smiles wider.

"Ah, yes. Of course. You want me to help with your dear brother and his...unfortunate tendency to lose things."

Loki grins, and his green eyes sparkle with mischief. "You know they will suspect me, but I am innocent. Thor alone can lift the hammer, and none else."

She laughs and kisses him again. "Well, it is a good job you were not alone, or you might not have managed it."

Loki takes her hand, and the two sit. "We did not have to do much lifting either, dear Angrboda. The fun is in little details. But I have found something...interesting."

Angrboda raises an eyebrow, shifting until she is nearly in his lap. "How so?"

Loki cards his fingers through her red hair thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. It could have healing properties. It...called to me, whatever it was. Something small, deep under the ground. But strong."

"Where did our little present turn up?"

"Jotunheim." Loki spits the word out like poison, causing Angrboda to shift away. He pulls her in closer, against his chest like a shield. "Whatever I'm looking for is close, scarce a mile's distance."

"But you need a distraction. I see." The witch curls against her lover and runs a hand through her hair, sending off an echoing jangle. She straightens swiftly, eyes snapping to green eyes. "I have an idea." Angrboda leans in close to whisper in his ear.

Loki smiles like the cat that got the canary before kissing her mad. "You are brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." He stands before helping her up. "And how fares the child?" Long white fingers splay across her very pregnant belly.

"Well, I think. She has been quiet of late." Loki's eyes are worried. Angrboda shakes her head. "Hush, I'll be alright. Come, we have a wedding to prepare."

***

And that is how, six hours later, the Great God of Thunder, heir to the throne of Asgard, comes to be found in his younger brother's chambers clothed in full bridal regalia. His blue eyes glare sullenly out from beneath the ridiculously lacy veil. Loki says nothing, but a small smile creeps onto his face.

Oh, Hel take it all. "You make a lovely bride, Thor." His eyes have never looked more green. Thor has only looked more angry once, back when Sif awoke one morning surrounded by hunks of her bright golden hair, no longer attached to her head. Except now, unlike then, Thor allows himself to reach out and plant a fist in Loki's face. For once, he actually lands the hit, and the younger prince stumbles back, a trickle of blood escaping from between the fingers pressed to his nose. The smile is gone from his face. Thor regrets it almost immediately, only it doesn't show.

With a practiced sharp (crack), Loki snaps his nose back into place, healing it in an instant. When he looks back to Thor, his expression is cold. "Do you want Mjolnir back or not?" he asks, the words dripping ice.

The unwilling bride stares back, unapologetic. He crosses his arms across his chest atop folds of silk, bottom lip jutting out petulantly. "Is there no other way?" he snaps.

"Not unless you fancy asking Freyja yourself," Loki replies. "And anyway, a bride is a bride is a bride to a frost giant."

"Parade around in this yourself, then!" Thor grumbles. Loki sends him a look that screams 'you-lost-it, you-get-it-back'. It's an unfairly self-righteous look and Thor half wants to re-break his nose. 

"You're not going to actually turn me into a woman, are you?"

Loki scoffs. "I wasn't planning on it. Just do as I've told you, and with luck we won't start any wars. Now, if you're ready...?" He extends an arm, which Thor grips stiffly. His mouth opens to pose a question about why a war would a bad when--

***

He is standing on a cold, endless blue plain of nothing, with a wedding dress wrapped around him and no pants. And no hammer. And no brother.

***  
Queens, half an hour ago to the present:

He listens. He laughs. He froths with anger. He, uh...he cries. A little bit.

"...and she was standing above him, with the blade of the dagger pressed against his neck, and I thought, "If he dies, right now, so will I." And I couldn't do a damned thing about it, Tony Stark."

The archer, his little pet, has joined them. He's mostly silent but Loki thinks about what Thor is telling them, all his secrets being the archer’s like all the archer's secrets had once been his, and he squeezes the champagne glass until it shatters. Loki's secrets are his own. Still, he listens, even knowing who else is listening. Even knowing that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Not knowing who else speaks his name, plots against him, calls to him as he hears Thor's tales.

When Thor talks about his breaking the silencing spell like it was some big mystery, Loki hears. He hears of his first meeting with Balder, of the hunt, of Balder and the mistletoe blade and Thor. He remembers. He remembers standing there as the blood stained his previously spotless hands an incurable crimson, watching Thor stare silently with his own blood dripping down the curve of his temple. Stare at the murderer.

Loki hates. He hates how casually his secrets are given away. He hates his brother-not-brother's truths mixed in with his own sweet, sweet lies. He hates that he allows this to go on despite everything. He listens, and feels raw like his brothe--Thor's voice has taken steel wool to his skin and scrubbed until there is only blue.

"And I just stood there, alone and thought about how much I hated the Jotuns," Thor says slowly. 

Loki hears, he knows all too well what happens next. "And then, I abandoned the plan. I tore off the veil - silence, archer - and marched straight into the palace to reclaim my birthright."

***

There had been a concrete plan. Several versions, in fact. Loki and Thor would sneak into Jotunheim and reclaim the hammer. Thor and Loki would sneak into Jotunheim and reclaim the hammer he banished there by magic in the first place. Good plans. Responsible plans.

Then, the plan shifted. Loki would lie. Loki would pretend that the giants demanded Freyja as a bride. Thor and Loki would sneak into Jotunheim with Thor dressed as a bride and reclaim the hammer. Very good plans. Not responsible ones in the least, but then who cares about that?

Loki has his own plans, as does Angrboda. They involve being as far away as possible once Thor sees through the lie. If he does, which is debatable. Thor and Loki sneak into Jotunheim, where Loki uses Thor as a most belligerent sort of key distraction. Thor reclaims his lost hammer and Loki finds what he searches for and as for the Jotuns? He'll figure it out later. Awful plans. Those are the most fun.

Maybe it shows he has self-destructive tendencies, that every once in awhile the spider constructs his web sloppily for the sheer joy of watching it tumble down around him. Maybe it's more subconscious than that, he thinks. Maybe it's a different plan of his that he's caught himself up in. One where Thor pretends to be a woman and Loki pretends to be a frost giant (with a bit of Angrboda's magic) and nothing goes quite like it should.

***

Hideous, Loki thinks as he watches the blue seep under his skin. Still, he downs the draught that the witch of the iron wood gave him, and allows the spell to take hold, slips into this false form with the last drop.

Can't go traipsing about in enemy land without a disguise. Still, it makes Loki that much more glad that this Jotun form is only that, a disguise, however temporary. The mere thought of having to live with the blue monster under his skin sends an unpleasant prickle up Loki's spine as he turns to follow the call of whatever thing led him to this warmth-forsaken place.

***

Thor marches across the vast expanse with bridal silk billowing out behind him. On the edge of the horizon, a castle appears.

***

People - monsters - point and stare as Loki walks by, regardless of his disguise. He feels fear, and revulsion, and...not cold. Perhaps the transformation is more than skin deep. He's smaller than even some of their monstrous offspring, though.

'Seidr' they murmur, staring intently at the runes across his back, his neck and face and arms, bared for all to see. Like ritual scars. He would be fascinated if he was not prepared to vomit in disgust.

The pointers and staters are long behind him when he feels the pull grow stronger. Just ahead of him tower a series of icy cliffs that sing him a song about the snow. It's wordless, and still a shiver runs through him.

***

Thor bashes together the heads of the two guards before they know what's hit them. A blessing in disguise, because no self-respecting giant would admit to being taken out by a tiny unarmed godling in a dress.

The hall is empty but for the hammer, still jutting up from its home in the ice. Thor grins, and reaches out....

***

After many twists and turns and half hearted wonderings about how much time he has left, the singing stops. The cave, like everything else on this world, is blue. In the center, a vast icicle juts down in a parody of Asgard's tall spires.

Loki simply glances left and right, then extends his hand to grasp at the silver chain and pendant dangling from the stalactite spear of ice. Nothing happens, and then everything does. Pain shoots up his blue arm, burning away the enchantment.

(Pain fear fear wrong what is wrong everything is wrong the handle I can't reach it so cold pain blood where is my brother)

Loki drops the pendant to the ground in shock. The pain vanishes and leaves his skin Aesir pale and blushing with cold. He reaches for it again.

(Loki please help where are you pain fear blood on ice can't breathe pain)

Grasping the pendant and its red stone firmly, Loki teleports away with Thor's plea still echoing in his ear. He reaches Thrym-Lord's hall in time to see the giant thrusting a spear of ice through his brother's back.

***

Why does he hesitate? He doesn't know, never can figure out quite why, only he does. He does nothing. He stands by and watches his brother die. It's like Balder, only worse because this blow has landed, and Thor is inches away from the hammer but seconds away from the end of his life and NOTHING ADDS UP. 

Loki, he is frozen like another jagged spar of ice, standing in the entrance with his fingers looped around a silver chain, and his face is impassive and cold because he is frozen.

And Thor, he meets those eyes and sees them flash blue for the first time in years. He feels numb, frozen, and like a foolish child. His lips form his brother's name, and he wants to say something about how sorry he is, only life never goes the way it should at times like this and the blackness overtakes him first.

Loki does not break until he sees the light in Thor's eyes extinguish. It's a tangible sound from deep within him, like the roar of a fire, like the jewel in the pendant on his wrist as it goes black.

What happens next? It's as much of a mystery as the hesitating, because all the witnesses are dead (the giants) or temporarily so (Thor) or Loki (who keeps his secrets well).

***

"I am awake."

"How intuitive of you."

There is some silence. Loki will not turn to meet his gaze. "What did you do?"

Bitter smile. Bitter laugh. He makes no reply.

Something had been wrong, only Thor can't remember what. Something in the back of his mind twitches and suggests that it doesn't matter. His own brain is lying to him, and he can't bring himself to stop it. At any rate, something had been wrong, and something had been made right. And a price had been paid.

"What is this?" he inquires of the red and silver pendant fastened to his neck.

"A gift. A little something I found dangling between the branches.  Your hammer is to your left."

He ignores the last bit. "It won't come off!"

"Good."

For the first time, Thor looks and he sees. "Are we on Jotunheim? Where are the Jotuns?" There is silver shining on Loki's cheek. "Are you crying?"

Loki turns, and his eyes shift blue-green like the sea. "Oh, you know me, brother. I always cry at weddings."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was going to be a subtle nod to frostiron, and then it was almost a separate fic.
> 
> I tend to write Loki/Tony interactions better, so excuse that if you don't ship it. More Thor in later parts, of course

Stark Tower:

"...It was his greatest lie of all. Years, decades, nearly a century and I never knew." He trails off.

"Thor." Silence. "Thor? THOR? Earth to hammer time, ten-four? Buddy?" Tony wiggles his fingers before Thor's face in a manner that, at any other moment, would have them snapped. The sort-of god makes no response. He's frozen; either asleep, dead, or so far retreated into his own head that nothing will bring him back out until sunrise at the earliest. It's not the first time this has happened, to any of them really, and everyone pretty much knows to just leave well enough alone whenever a teammate...breaks a little bit.

"Leave him," Clint calls from his position on the balcony. There's a strained quality to his voice that reveals how very close the archer is to breaking as well. His face is smooth and devoid of emotion, no tumult in the dull blue eyes that meet Tony's on the penthouse balcony at midnight, but the inventor knows, all the same. Clint is stiff and unmoving, tensed up like a bird about to take to the skies.

Tony nods, and Clint lets go in his own way, locking his knees and free-falling three or four stories to Natasha's balcony, which is equipped with a landing stretch for situations like this. Tony leans over the edge of the roof, watching the master assassin jimmy the lock - which is probably damn near impossible - and slip inside the warmth of Chez Romanov. It's never been very clear what, if anything, is between the two field agents, but they're at least close enough that breaking into each others' rooms at midnight is a totally okay thing. Question have been asked, ones like, "What do you talk about?" and "How long have you even been like this?" and ones they really mean, like "So are you together, or...?" Either way, the reply is a wry smile and the muttering of a phrase in Russian that sounds suspiciously like "Budapest".

Tony has never been good at this, at dealing with emotions. Hell, the man needs a giant metal bulk jutting out of his meaty bits even to prove that he has a heart. Tony Stark never reacts when his teammates break, when he walks by the gym and Steve is staring at the remains of a punching bag currently spilling its grey, sandy innards across the floor. Or when he plops down on his favorite couch and looks over to see Bruce kneeling in the corner with his head in his hands. Tony never says a word, unless it's to tease, to see how far he can bend before it snaps (as usual).  
And above all, Tony never, ever breaks.

Which is to say he is the most shattered of them all. The genius's very being is constructed on eggshells. No, something even more fragile; he is only human, less than human. Tony's heart can literally be stopped with a simple tug, a disconnect of two wires. He never breaks where people can find him, not since the palladium incident because, hey, life is pretty great now, why should a little thing like the past bother the great Tony Stark?

He retreats, steals away to his room(s) or his highest high-clearance-level lab with a bottle or five of the really good stuff, and gives up. It doesn't happen often, maybe once every few months when he'll look down at his hands and realize that his bodycount only ever goes up.

When Tony stumbles into his bedroom after Clint departs and Thor breaks, that's exactly what his plan is. In fact, he's already got a head start on a bottle and a half of something strong that missed Pepper's thorough scouring. He can't even remember his own middle name, but Tony has nowhere near enough alcohol in his blood to numb the burning ache left by Thor's stories. Tony is an emotional drunk who just wants to curl up in a ball and die, but goddamnit there is a Norse god sitting cross-legged on his bed.

He looks kind of stupidly beautiful, silhouetted against the city lights streaming in the window. Loki's back is to Tony, and he's almost entirely sans armor, though the Asgardian concept of casual wear makes it hard to distinguish. It's surprisingly the only time Tony's had an enemy in his bed, although this one is fully clothed and PISSED OFF, if the way his fingers glow and ignite blue flames is any indication. Tony, for once, keeps his mouth shut. He just stands there with his throat full of liquor that refuses to burn and his head full of thoughts that won't stop being thought. He will not break in front of his teammates, he's sure as hell not about to in front of Loki. "So."

Loki inclines his head, ever so slightly, as an indication that he knows Stark is there. Even Natasha is easier to read than him, basking in the cool moonlight with his back to the enemy and his head held high. And they said Thor was the foolhardy one of the pair.

"Are you planning on persuading me to have searing hate-sex with you or something? Because I'm sure you're great in bed and all, but..." Tony trails off, then takes another swig of the bottle in his hand, relishing the dark, throaty burn. He is also a lusty drunk. Reindeer Games makes no response, but Tony can feel the smirk creeping across his face.

"Actually," he murmurs, standing in one smooth motion, and turning to face the other occupant of the room. Goddamn, that smirk...no, bad Tony. No leering at the supervillains even if they do make leather look good. Loki towers above Tony, gaze dark and mad, "I'm planning to threaten you."

And hey, isn't that the king of recycled lines? Tony's buzzing, broken head is filled with thoughts of past encounters, of the unique numbing feeling caused by his back shattering window glass. Shit, he's going to die, and it's going to be slow and painful and he can't even bring himself to stop wishing Loki would turn around again so he can appreciate that ass..."I see," he slurs, and sits down abruptly on the bed, sloshing brandy - is it brandy? - over the rim of the bottle. "Can you maybe think about coming back when I'm not so smashed I can’t remember...what can't I remember again?"

Loki crosses his arms, unimpressed, and sort of stabs Tony with his eyeballs. Tony downs another good gulp and feels himself break despite his efforts, crack open like window glass and spill across the bed. Only he's still sitting there, still as a statue, staring with dead eyes at a man who will probably leave his corpse to rot in this room. "I can think of maybe better ways to spend our time," he jibes, though there's no heart in it, "Is drunken sex good enough for you? Cause I don't think I can muster the angry sex thing right now. Performance issues, y'know?"

"Sober up, Stark," Loki sneers. And that's all the warning he gets, all he gets before Loki snaps his fingers and Tony's head pretty much splits open. He watches fireworks pop behind his eyelids for a second, like maybe this is what dying feels like, and then his head clears and the numbness goes away and all the feelings rush him at once and crack his shell wide open. He's busy trying not to do something stupid like throw up or pass out or cry or hyperventilate.

Which is why it takes him a second to notice that there is a HAND. On his ARC REACTOR.  
Tony's brown eyes snap open, stone cold sober, and Loki's right in his face, hovering over him like a goddamn angel of death, with his fingers curved around the machine keeping Tony alive and murder in his eyes. Tony tries, he does, but his walls are down and he can't keep the absolute terror off of his face. Speaking is out of the question, and for some stupid reason he's stopped breathing.

"One little tug, Anthony Stark. That's all it would take. I could just...pull. And then I would sit here and watch you die. Watch the lights leave your eyes, feel your skin grow cold, hear you beg for mercy while I held the key to your heart just out of reach." Loki's voice is low and soft, every syllable a threat and a promise. "And I would enjoy it so immensely." His poison eyes light up with the power rush, smiling a truly wicked smile as Tony starts breathing again, shallow and quick as though each lungful of air is his last. Right, forget freaking pity, forget everything he thought earlier. This guy is evil.

"Wh-what's stopping you? Pull the plug if you can, you bastard,” he growls, desperate. "I'll fucking haunt you!" Tony has never known when to shut up, never. Loki narrows his eyes with the same insane smile on his face.

"Another time, I think," he whispers, tracing a long finger over the scar tissue surrounding the electromagnet. "I have a point I'd rather like to make. But I have to admit, the idea is rather tempting. And I have never been one to resist temptation." He doesn't move his hand, a silent warning to keep Tony in check.

There is nothing Tony can say, nothing he can do. He is completely at Loki's mercy, and he knows it. "Fire away," he snaps. (Do your worst) he thinks, only Loki will take that all too literally and breathing is a thing Tony wants to be doing for as long as possible.

"Oh, I intend to," Loki muses, continuing to trace a path along the curved edge of the metal thoughtfully. "In good time. Now. A few simple questions, and we'll be done here." He leaves the statement infuriatingly open-ended, but Tony, he knows he's not leaving this room alive. That's not how Loki operates. He breathes faster.

"What makes you think I'll answer these 'simple questions'?" is what the inventor says next. Loki lifts his head up to meet Tony's wide-eyed, defiant gaze and laughs.

"I hold your life in the palm of my hand, and you would demand answers of me?" Loki says, giving the reactor a tug just to prove his point and make Tony wince. "You will tell me everything, because you want to. Because you, Stark, are insatiable. I know whether or not I promise to make your end slow and painful, you will question me. You always do." He jams it back into position, making Tony's ribs jar. "You, my faithful little enemy, have heard far too much about me of late, and as recompense I have a right to question you in equal measure."

"I don't suppose you overheard the thing on the roof earlier? Awkward." Tony winces out, still breathing heavily.

"Quite," Loki states, curving his other hand around to ply his fingers whisper-soft around the billionaire's throat. "So tell me, Stark," he growls, leaning in until his voice is a presence at the shell of his ear, "What did you think? Was it an interesting enough story for you? Sufficiently diverting?" Tony swallows hard against his strong-fingered grip, staring straight up at the ceiling and trying hard not to react to this, to being pinned against the headboard with the god of mischief straddling him, one hand around his neck and one breath away from stopping his heart. Any of the other Avengers would not only be completely not aroused by this, they'd probably be tossing Loki out a window by now. Shit, why is Tony so incurably human? "You know, in some cultures it's considered rude to tell a man's secrets behind his back. Or to his face," Loki whispers against his ear.

"And in some cultures it's considered rude to strangle people. Win some, lose some," Tony smartasses, trying to shift away from Loki. Spoiler: it doesn't work. He does back off a bit though, studying his prey like a hawk watching...oh god. "You're not, like, simultaneously cutting out Clint's liver and feeding it to him, are you?"

"No, you receive special attention on the threatening front, Stark. You can serve as an... example to the rest," Loki says, looking sort of surprised to admit it. This is the part where Tony escapes miraculously, hits him over the head with a bottle or something. Or at least he would if he ever claimed to be a hero. But Loki was right, he is curious. He has to know, to understand. Plus, you know, the whole arc reactor thing.

Loki lifts his hand from his victim's throat, begins to trace the same patterns along the rim of the device. "Thor will stop this. He will forget everything that he has told you, you will forget everything you have been told. My secrets will be my own to keep. And when we next meet in battle, as you well know we shall, I will face him as an enemy and he the same; should the fool finally deign to look past his own blinding sentiment. This is your message, little carrier pigeon."

Then Loki, he flattens his hand against Tony's chest and sends fire through him, roasting his heart and searing his bones. Like the burn of alcohol multiplied tenfold. Tony screams, or thinks he does at least, as the pain rips through him.

_"...I always cry at weddings."  
"The sons of Odin have arrived!"  
"I yearn to speak, Sigyn. Silence is torture to a silver tongue."  
"...have my head as promised, wench. But my neck and my life I shall keep..."  
"Thor!"_

"Oh. OH, Stark. What a sentimental fool you've turned out to be." Loki's voice sounds just above the echoing screams in his head. The fire burning through his mind tastes like spices and snow. And then the fire freezes, and he blacks out.

Loki is a silent presence above him, watching, contemplating because Tony has stopped writhing in pain. He inclines his head curiously, staring at a stray lock of hair fallen across the genius's forehead. His gaze wanders lower to his own hand, splayed over the reactor. A twist and a pull and a broken promise, and that would be that. Simple. So simple that he cannot even bring himself to do it.

There will be other chances, Loki thinks to himself as he stands and vanishes. Tony Stark wakes up to a chorus of sunlight streaming in the window, with the echo of a burning pain behind his eyes, and the taste of spice and snow lingering on his tongue.

***

Steve has not slept in a week and a half. Ten days. Two hundred and forty hours. 14,400 minutes, give or take. He's not normally one for math, but something has to fill the hours normally spent sleeping. Well, Steve doesn't sleep normally, Steve hasn't slept normally in around seventy-two years (more numbers). Granted, he was comatose for a nice round seventy of those, but only someone as eccentric as an Avenger would count that as sleeping. Normally.

Anyway, it all adds up to Steve sitting in the corner chair - which is irrevocably his chair, there were official documents and everything, so help him god - at six in the morning with his sketchbook on his lap and numbers in his head. Probably spending too much time with Tony. The numbers and the fact that Steve just thought of six o'clock as an early hour of the morning. Tony is probably the only one in the house who has never cared to see the light of day before high noon. So it's more than mildly interesting when the billionaire staggers in the doorway, collapsing on the chair opposite Steve, who blinks and says nothing.

He focuses on the white canvas of the page before him, juxtaposed with the images in his mind. The pencil clasped loosely in his right hand meanders around the borders, carving out a dark eye, the quirk of a smile, the eyebrow jutting at a rakish angle. Bucky has not slept in over seventy years, because he's been dead for seventy-two of them. Steve doesn't know how long that is in hours. Minutes. He tries to conjure up a different face; full lips, tilted nose, hair curling over a smooth jawline. But something is wrong with his brain, with the pencil, with the image in his head because nothing will show up on the paper. It happens every time. No matter how many faces flash through his mind, no matter how many times he traces the outline of their lives, the sound of their voices, the way they walked - strutted, in most cases - the one face he can never capture is Peggy Carter's.

Across the room, Tony still sits, silent, contemplative, unaware of Steve or the fact that it's ten past six or even what room he's in. Steve flips the page, and jots down another sketch, one where Tony slouches with his worries resting on an elbow as he stares at something only he can see. His face, like all the faces of the team - is familiar to Steve. Warm, sad eyes and a smile with just a hint of tooth. The light streaming in the windows highlights the tips of his hair and the bridge of his nose, keeping his deep-set eyes in shadow.

Half past six, and Tony hasn't moved. There are bags under his eyes. Steve opens his mouth to ask whether or not he's slept because he actually needs to, and he says, "How many hours are in seventy-two years?"

Tony blinks, startled, and looks up at Steve. "630,720" he recites in a heartbeat. The man is made of numbers. Steve takes that to mean he's alright, too, because even if he's meant to be the moral compass of the group he doesn't deal well with feelings.

"Oh," Steve says. He darkens the shadows in his eyes, then sets the pencil aside. "Thanks."

Twenty minutes to seven, and Natasha saunters in, hair pulled back into a curly half-ponytail. She grants the pair a nod before disappearing into the kitchen and coming out with a mug of black coffee. Steve really liked coffee once, but now it doesn't do much for him. Metabolism, and also the fact that he never gets tired enough to need caffeine anyway. Clint follows her, dropping from the ceiling panel and sitting on the arm of the couch - an act that has nearly prompted Miss Potts to homicide on multiple occasions. Whatever distant look filled Tony's eyes earlier, there are traces of it in Clint as well.

"You're up early, Stark," Natasha quips from behind her coffee mug. "Or did you sleep at all last night?"

Tony grins. "Happy to see me, sunshine? What do you guys even do down here before I get up?" Avoiding the question? Most likely. Steve shoots him a concerned glance, setting his sketchbook aside.

"Conspire against you. Steal your stuff. America's Next Top Model marathons. Pillow fights. All that good stuff," Clint responds jauntily.

"Clint, you do that when I'm in the room." Tony laughs his normal false-sounding laugh and throws his head back a bit. Natasha catches sight of the bruises on his neck, and her eyes - which are wide or hooded normally, Steve knows - they narrow unpleasantly.  
She takes a step towards their host, and sees him flinch. Natasha's angry face is less familiar to Steve, she masks her emotions so well, but he takes note. Dangerous tilted brows, pursed red lips, and aforementioned narrowed eyes. Actually more than a bit reminiscent of Peggy. Tony's confused gaze darts between his three teammates. "What? What! I'm totally cool with you guys stealing my stuff! I have, like, money enough to replace it all twice - maybe three times without the modern art. I could dive into it and swim like Scrooge McDuck. You guys ever wanna try that, or is it just me? Sounds like it'd be uncomfort- ow! Natasha what are you doing you are popping my clearly defined personal space bubble!"

"Someone tried to strangle you," Clint says. They've all crowded around him now. "Mind telling us who it was?"

Tony, his mouth opens to answer, but for once no sound comes out. His eyes widen almost comically, throwing the shadows into relief. He struggles for a second or two, silent. "...tastes like f***ing cinnamon. I hate cinnamon. Also snow. And those little umbrellas in drinks. What is the point of those?"

"Just answer the question, Tony," Steve snaps. The bruises are a deep, discolored purple, just the right shade to melt into shadow and go unnoticed. Very distinct finger markings. Steve wants to know who to punch out.

Something a bit like a snarl crosses the inventor's face, which is pretty unprecedented. He chuckles sardonically. "Oh captain, my captain. Can't. Love to, of course, but can't." Natasha ghosts her fingers across the markings experimentally, and Tony winces, flinching away from her.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You can't tell us who tried to kill you?" Steve hovers a little, watching the medically trained master assassins examine Tony while he stands back, arms crossed.

"Kill? No, I kind of pissed him off a little and he...well, maybe kill after all. Technically threaten." Tony slaps away Natasha's hand and jolts away from the couch as though it's grown a set of teeth and snarled at him. "Speaking of which, where's Th...thor?" His speech hitches on the name, like maybe he never bothered to learn a title beyond 'Hammer Time'.

An anachronistic grandfather clock in the library down the hall to the right rings in the new hour with a deep clang. Clint - who's a tad bit hung over despite the effect of Natasha's dubious Russian remedies - covers his ears and groans. Steve raises an eyebrow. "What did you boys get up to last night?" he queries. By the looks of things, not sleeping. At least Clint was absent on the mysterious threatening front.

He tumbles from the arm of the couch to the cushions in a mock-faint, one hand still clasped to his forehead. "Drinking. Lots of drinking. Thor, Tony, and I; we probably put away enough to make you buzz, Cap-" He freezes, then turns to pin the inventor to the wall with his glare. "...so why aren't you hung over?"

"Years of experience. Works like magic. Yours free for just 9.95 a pop." Tony's eyes dart to the exits, panicked.

Steve sends calming vibes his way, cornering Clint again. "What else did you do last night?" The archer swallows, turning to Natasha, who has the same scrutinizing look in her eyes as the super-soldier.

"We...Thor told some...stories about...oh my God." His eyes widen, fixed on a point over Steve's shoulder. "Oh my Violent Norse God."

"Oh, you're good, archer," Tony says in Loki's cold voice just as Thor enters the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So more Thor feels a bit
> 
>  
> 
> God it was hard to find the cutoff for this chapter. This seemed like the best place, really, so sorry for shortness
> 
> One more chapter of this, and I'll get back to storytelling. Take that how you will.

A long time ago, Clint and Tony had a serious conversation. It sounds far-fetched, yes, but apparently even Tony Stark is capable of serious conversations every third blue moon. The incident sticks out clearly in his mind, because it really only happened the once.

It was two o'clock in the morning, and neither of them could sleep. Tony had spent the past five hours staring blankly at his bedroom ceiling debating the pros and cons of covering it with an Iron Man mural or a giant Avengers symbol, after spending twenty-seven hours in his lab bending the laws of physics and possibly singeing off half of his right eyebrow, which was much more painful than it sounded. Nobody knew what Clint had been doing except maybe Natasha, unless she had been asleep at the time. Either way, they sat in the kitchen and Tony had only half of an eyebrow and Clint had purple bunny slippers on, and they talked about zombies.

"So he just poked you in the chest? Plonk? And then, what, you turned into a minion?" Nod. "What was it like?"

Clint scowled. "It felt like dying. All this blackness rushed up to my head and I couldn't breathe. And it tasted like cinnamon and...snow, I think. He took me out of my own head, and then sat there and played with it."

"That sounds absolutely...well, creepy for one thing. Seriously, you tasted snow?"

The ears of the bunny slippers twitched with displeasure."And cinnamon. I can't stand the taste of cinnamon."

There's a long silence. "Did you know?"

"Did I know? Of course I knew. I couldn't stop it, I didn't even want to."

Tony's one-quarter bald eyes grew distant. "How many?"

"Thirty-four, not counting the ones from the base collapse. Tasha wouldn't tell me after, but I...I kept track. I actually knew most of them."

Tony had smiled sadly and thought about his personal bodycount of thousands. He had taken a sip of the spiked cider in his mug and thought about the dark world beyond the portal seeping in through the suit and suffocating him utterly. He had met Clint's eyes, and asked, "What's it like to be unmade?"

Clint stood. "Pray to whatever sad excuse for a God you believe in that you never find out, Tony."

***

Thor has - and he knows this - the most impeccably awful timing in all of the nine realms. He walks in on things that he shouldn't walk in on. Several times he's rounded a corner and heard Father and Loki in the middle of a...disagreement, which is always uncomfortable because he doesn't know which side to take. Not that it matters anymore, really, as the two haven't spoken at length since his banishment. He's also walked in on Fandral with a woman - which is usually followed by invitations to join in - or Sif with another man - which shouldn't bother him, it's not as though they had a steady relationship - and on one memorable occasion, Loki with one of each. (He tries very hard not to think about that one.) The point is, by now Thor realizes that he's always going to enter a room at the worst possible moment.

Never before has he walked in and seen the brother who is not really his brother posses his friend and teammate. But he's heard that there is a first time for everything.

"Oh, you're very good, archer," a far too familiar voice sounds from the direction of the living room. Thor, who is a heavy sleeper and seldom a morning person, is jolted from his practiced lethargy by the strains of conversation. The voice - it's Loki's voice, or he's gone mad. But when Thor vaults through the doorway, he finds four teammates as alert as himself, and no one else.

He addresses the lady Romanoff first, because she's so like Sif that it's mind-boggling and he always turns to Sif when he needs help. "Where is he? Where is Loki?" he demands, and all the room's occupants turn to face him at the same moment. The two agents are as confused as he, he reads it in their faces. But Steven, his eyes are wide with horror and staring straight at Stark. The latter has a hand pressed to his throat and an expression of disbelief on his rugged face. His eyes bore straight through Thor, a haunted expression that makes his stomach churn. The thunder god does not understand, though Steve's mouth opens and closes silently, though the inventor shouts a strangled noise of warning. He throws up his hands toward Thor.

"No!" he croaks, "Get out, b-before...." Stark seems to lose control of his own voice just seconds before his body shudders and his eyes fill with a strange green light. Well, Thor thinks, he's really outdone himself this time around.

Clint blinks. The Widow does not. Steven appears to have stopped breathing. Thor steps back defensively. Anthony smiles. "Oh Thor, we really must stop meeting like this," Loki says.

By the tree, he did not...he did. Thor growls, and Loki laughs darkly, an alien smirk crawling across the possessed inventor's face. He strolls closer with a catlike grace, then stops abruptly. "I would not do that if I were you," he sings softly. There is the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked, one sound Thor would recognize in all of Midgard. The gun is held by the Widow, pointed at Anthony, and her hands do not even shake. Clint and Thor both recognize the angle, shifted to accommodate an instantly fatal shot. Thor's eyes widen, though he makes no move to stop her. Yet.

"Whatever it may be, thy quarrel is with me, Loki. Leave my friends out of it," Thor says quietly. Stark stares him down silently, then raises his hands. The green glow that permeates his eyes fades but does not vanish entirely. The lady's grip falters for a brief second, but Clint shakes his head with all the wariness of the empathetic.

What Doctor Banner walks in on is this: Clint, Steve, and Thor are still as statues. Natasha keeps her pistol trained on a point between Stark's shoulder blades. "What...?" he murmurs, taking in the scene. "Tasha? Did I...miss something?" Thor sees him breathe in deeply, struggling to keep his beast caged. Natasha moves to answer, but the inventor cuts him off.

"Brucie!" His own voice. Thor releases a breath he was unaware he had been holding. And yet there is something false, something a bit...off about it. "Now we can really have a party!"

And then the green glow intensifies to blinding and Loki lunges, knocking them all to the ground with a wave of sheer power. Thor watches in horror as the gun slips from the Widow's fingers, spinning slowly through the air. Tony's hand, enabled with Loki's impeccable reflexes, catches it smoothly. For half a second, he turns it over, considering. Thor flinches, then sees Stark smile and then he is staring down the barrel into a pair of pitiless, glowing, dead eyes. Another dark laugh spills from his lips.

"Tony-!" Steven yells, as Banner's monster surges under his skin. The assassins are at his side in an instant, holding him back, ready to fight for a hopeless cause. Thor is frozen, sprawled across the coffee table, watching and waiting. Slowly, oh so slowly - what was the Midgardian expression? Treading upon eggs? - he stands, never taking his eyes from Stark's. Loki's?

Despite his teammate's diminutive stature, Loki's spirit makes him seem to tower high above Thor. He steps closer, finger ghosting over the trigger. "You are right." He puts on no airs, does not bother to disguise his voice, and Banner's skin ripples green. Thor can hear him breathing heavily, fighting to stay in control. "My quarrel is with you, _brother_." The last word is a sneer, spat out like fire, like a bitter poison.

"And yet here you stand, bargaining with the life of my friend!" he snaps, unable to keep the anger from his voice. Every bone in his body screams 'coward' or 'he is worth ten of you'.

"This?" Loki asks, turning the weapon over in his hand lightly. "Tis but an extra reassurance, as it were. A measure of protection. I seek only to send a message, after all." The way he utters that word, message, it makes Thor's stomach churn. He waits for the message, the temperature of the room dropping as everything stills.

"Think not, Thor, to share with me in glory any more. Two suns keep not their motion in one sphere, and we have always been as such. My secrets are my own, and I will take measures to keep them that way. I have been lenient thus far, but if you ever presume to repeat last night's conversation, rest assured that I will...oh, I suppose I can start by burning the heart out of you." As he speaks, his image seems to flicker, so that at times he seems to be a separate entity from Anthony. This last phrase elicits a sneer from him, as though the heart is a burden only a fool would choose to bear.

"I cannot. You may have forgotten our years together, brother, but I have not. I will not," Thor pleads.

"No." He sighs gently. "I suppose I haven't given you quite enough incentive yet. Bullets present no obstacle to a God--I trust this is loaded, Agent Romanoff?--very good. Well then, let me try one more time." Loki lifts the barrel and jams it against his own--Stark's-- temple hard enough to bruise. Banner and Steven let out a strangled yell, and Thor backs against the corner chair. Loki's voice is clear, though Anthony's face is twisted in pain. "I really think you will."

Thor closes his eyes. There is a low roaring in his ears. He slumps into the seat, submissive. "I am truly sorry." Perhaps he addresses Loki, perhaps Anthony. He owes both an apology, at least. Slowly, Thor opens his hand.

The trickster tilts his head, disappointment reading faintly in his gaze. "Has the message sunken in al--" Mjolnir thuds against his chest, cutting him off. The gun goes flying, where the Widow intercepts it deftly. Loki laughs again, pinned beneath the crushing weight. Thor watches silently, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"You tricked me. You actually tricked me." Is his mantra, lips forming the words over and over again, silently. Twisted pride is evident in his tone, in his ceaseless laughter. The green glow of the possessed eyes never dims, not when the team leaves, when the agents surround him, when Thor grimaces and removes the hammer. Loki is still laughing when the door of the Hulk's prison slams shut between them.

"Why?" Thor says, pressing a hand to the thick glass.

He does not hear, or more likely refuses to register his words. Stark smiles Loki's smile again, as though he speaks to a small child. "You still want your brother back."

"You speak as though you are not--"

"That is because I am not your brother. Your brother is dead, Thor. What little remained of him was torn apart in the abyss. You killed him. Perhaps I did. Perhaps he never existed." His words cut like daggers. It has always been so between the two. Thor turns to leave, but cannot resist a parting word.

"I know my brother. I have hope that he will one day return to me. He always did before."

"Then you are a fool." Loki's voice is grating and thick with unshed tears and layers of pain. Thor feels a flash of guilt.

His fingers rest on the frame of the doorway, because his exits are far better than his entrances. "Perhaps."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so then i
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah hopefully this isn't too confusing for you my mind works in strange ways.
> 
> I also managed to reference both "Tricks of the Trade" and "Solve for X", if you catch that. I'm sorry, it just happened.

Fury is in the control room, but then any room Fury is in immediately becomes the control room according to protocol 53-C. This room, however, stands out because it was originally designed as a control room. Black and white, grainy screens cover every inch of wall, loose wires trace the carpet, and in the center is a desk complete with an insanely comfortable chair that screams "I Am the Boss, Listen to Me," capital letters absolutely necessary. Fury is only half sitting in that chair, but Agent Hill listens to him anyway."Touching," he mutters, watching the resident Asgardian storm away. His eye wanders from camera to camera, following the demigod's journey, then snaps back to the cell. 

Stark's luminescent eyes travel slowly to the camera, knowingly meeting the director's gaze. "Enjoying the show, Director?" hequeries. Then a fist smashes hard against the glass in front of the lens, an insane grin visible just beyond the clenched fingers. Hill jumps ever so slightly at the resounding bang, and Fury blinks.

"Surveillance level five. Get him to a more secure cell ten minutes ago, and for God's sake cuff his hands!" He barks, throwing his restless bulk into the chair, which creaks in protest.

Of all the agents in this facility, only Hill would dare go against him, which is why he trusts his second-in-command so completely. She clears her throat. "With all due respect, Sir, Stark is a member of the Avengers and a prominent-"

"Stark is a danger to himself and others, and he is currently inhabited by the man who holds all of the top three spots on our most wanted list, and is as such our top priority to contain at any cost. Until further notice, Agent Hill."

She nods tersely. Within five minutes Stark is enclosed in their highest level security cell. Damn near impossible to compromise. Nobody gets in, nobody sure as hell gets out. Unless....

"Sir?"

"Agent Hill?" he growls, sinking deeper into the plush leather chair.

"We are dealing with a God, Sir. Don't you think he can find a way to slip out?"

His fingers drum against the dark wood of the the desk, eye narrowing in thought. Stark has folded his legs into an anatomically improbable pretzel and is eerily still and silent, which is relieving as well as disconcerting. Of course he can just vanish at any point, unless he’s waiting for something. Or maybe he’s just bored, which is a terrifying possibility that should never be discounted. Either way, Fury’s having a bad day, and he wouldn’t mind sharing. "Call in Strange."

***

Doctor Steven Strange has a mind like quicksilver and eyes like red-hot pokers. These dart across the floor, over the walls; sweep over agents and security cameras and things that only he can see. His fingers beat an impatient tattoo against his side as though disgusted at being forced to resort to something as tedious as walking. He saunters calmly through security barriers with a wave of his hand, eyes still roaming ceaselessly.

Where? he asks himself silently, sending the thought out as far as it will go. The answer comes more quickly than expected, likely due to the urgent nature of his visit. Seven right, two right, one down, three left, presto. Like magic. Exactly like magic.

He is late, of course, but then a wizard is never late as a basic principle. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to. Strange bows low at the waist, his cape falling across his shoulders and sweeping the ground. "Director," he purrs by way of greeting. Fury does not even blink, because after a few years even the most eccentric eccentricities of your consultants become second nature. If anything can be said about Strange, it's that he has an ego to rival that of Tony Stark himself, and the cape, while flashy, is anything but new.

"Agent Hill gave you the rundown of the situation, yes?"

"She provided a basic outline, though I am uncertain to what--"

"Yes or No, Strange?" he barks, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the cell immediately to their left.

He deflates, eyes following Fury's and darting right back. "Yes."

"Well, then," he half-growls, "Can you help?"

"Can an eagle fly? Can a dragon breathe fire? Can--" he clears his throat hurriedly at the expression on Fury's face. "My dear Director, I am, as ever, at your service."

"Good," he says, glancing quickly at a timepiece. "It has been approximately two hours since the war criminal was apprehended, and right now containment is our main concern. Loki is known for his skills in teleportation, Doctor, and we are not about to let him skip away now. Can you contain him within the vessel he has possessed?"

Doctor Steven Strange rarely smiles, and when he does--like now--you know things are about to get interesting. Usually not in the best way, come to think of it. The occult consultant winks. "I can do much more than that, Director!" He raises his hands high, eyes fixing on a distant invisible point, and casts his spell.

***  
Interrogation Room, Friday, 14:00

When they bring him in, his head is spinning. A lucky combination of bright lights and the whole sort-of-untreated concussion thing he still has going on. Also the fact that Romanoff of all people lounges in a chair opposite his, drumming her nails against the standard-issue table which is probably bolted to the floor.

He winces a little bit as he sits down, bruises still blossoming purple across his back and chest. The totally unnecessary magic-impeding handcuffs don't help much either.

"Mr. Stark," she says so politely that he feels like he's been slapped. She inclines her head, one eyebrow quirking dangerously.

Tony clears his throat a little because damn is it harder to play it cool with a concussion. Also, when Tasha starts addressing people formally, you know that you’re in trouble. "Bondage hour at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" He gestures to his wrist, which is handcuffed to the chair (which, ow, he didn't really realize how much exactly that would hurt but he can't feel his fingertips anymore). "Kinky, but I don't remember picking a safeword."

She ignores him, which is really only to be expected, sitting up in her chair--why does she get the comfy chair, anyway? "Storytime, Mr. Stark. Let's start with you telling me how exactly a level five security threat escapes a locked cell with exactly one witness?"

Ah. "You wouldn't be referring to Loki? Tall, leather fetish, occasionally blows up cities? I'm not sure I know what you mean, Agent Romanoff," he fires off, fiddling with the handcuffs again just because.

_Tony screamed when the god's soul was ripped from his body. Because holy hell was it painful, as well as completely unexpected. He gasped at the sudden loss (freedom), sinking to the floor of the cell in exhaustion and relief. Loki was silent beside him, gaze fixed on the wall opposite as red light danced around them both. His expression remained completely unreadable, vacant even._

_"Anybody home?" He waved a hand before unblinking eyes, because fuck it all, if he was going to die, he was going to make it quick and painless. Plus, he’s Tony Stark._

_"I advise you not to touch me, Stark, unless you would like to be strangled with your own intestines. Believe me, I would be happy to arrange it."_

_Silence. Silence everywhere, like the empty stretch of silence on the balcony last night just before he'd gone and asked Thor why. Silences, when you are with Tony Stark, nearly always precede bad things as a general rule. Probably it was an official law or something, but then Tony Stark and laws had never gotten well, either._

_"Why are you still here, if you don't mind me asking?"_

_Loki made a dismissive noise in his throat that screamed, 'Of course I mind, half-wit'. He said nothing._

_Oh. "You can't," he muttered, and Loki's eyes snapped to his face. "You're still here because you can't leave."_

Romanoff stares at him curiously, a little bit like she's dissecting him with her eyes, and if that doesn't serve to unsettle him nothing ever will. He sighs, slumping forward against the table with an air of resignation.

"Question; whose brilliant idea was it to pull the guy out of my head but leave me trapped in a cell with him?"

She grins like a shark. "Doctor Steven Strange. Occult consultant for S.H.I.E.L.D."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has a--who the hell am I kidding, of course S.H.I.E.L.D. has an occult consultant." Tony snorts.

Tasha just stares at him a little while longer with a question half-formed on her bloodred lips. "You told him something." Actually not a question, sort of. But at least he'd guessed correctly that it was about Loki.

Tony grins. "No, honey, I _asked_ him something."

_"You're a bastard, by the way, did you know that?" he commented airily, swallowing a wince because seriously he had just noticed the bruised ribs._

_Loki looked unimpressed, rising elegantly (elegantly?) to his feet. Tony felt a rush of cold fear at the look dawning in his eyes. He backed up unsteadily as the supervillian moved closer. "You. You know how to open doors," he said icily. Tony's back hit the wall in the biggest 'Oh, shit' moment since forgetting Pepper's birthday two years ago._

_"Do I look like I've got a key to you?" He hoped to God he sounded braver than he felt, tilting his head in a sort of maybe a little mocking gesture._

_Loki smiled, which by itself was almost always enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He reached out a long, pale finger. "Do not take me for a fool. This," Tony flinched as the finger touched lightly between his eyes, "Is your key. The only key you will ever need."_

_"Can you not keep doing that please? The whole sexual predator creepily seductive thing?" Loki raised a questioning eyebrow while still managing to look threatening, and Tony would happily give him a reward for that as soon as he stepped the fuck back out of his personal bubble._

_His eyes narrowed abruptly. "Open the door." He said it calmly, which made it all the more pants-shitting scary because nothing that Loki said in that voice could be taken lightly._

_Tony let out a long breath. "No." Loki said nothing, merely licked his lips in an I-will-enjoy-hearing-you-scream way. He held up a hand in a universal not-finished gesture. "Not for free."_

_Loki blinked in amused surprise. "And what price would you ask me to pay, little mortal?"_

Agent Romanoff paces the room as she listens, and freezes when he stops. Her eyes fix on him, once again full of questions. "Did you enable the prisoner's escape?"

He taps his fingers against the arm of the little plastic chair, deciding that discretion may at this juncture be the better part of valor, or whatever the fuck it was that causes him to do what he does. Probably bravery, or stupidity or something like that.

She laughs slightly at the absurdity of the situation. "He compromised you, threatened your life and the lives of your teammates multiple times, and you let him go?" He feels a hot flash of something that may be guilt and may be something else entirely. Tasha sees his eyes harden, boring holes into the varnished tabletop. "Do you pity him?"

_"You're right, you know. About the key. I designed this ship, I know every door of this place better than anyone who has ever existed and ever will. If I wanted to, actually, I could have half the world under my thumb in a heartbeat, and the other half would fall in ten minutes flat." It was the truth, and it stung a little as he said it. "I can help you pull a Houdini..."_

"You do. You really do pity him. What did you ask him?" Tony can tell by her tone that she knows already. He is silent.

_"...just answer me this: What happened between you and Thor?"_

_Loki did not anticipate that, and he flinched as though struck. "...what?"_

_Tony propped himself against the wall, standing shakily to his feet. "Secrets for freedom. That's my deal. You can kill me, sure, but then what? You'll have no way out."_

Agent Romanoff gives him one last long, hard look, before walking past him and out the door, leaving Tony all alone with the guilt pooling in his gut.

_The silence lasted a few seconds, and those few seconds were a thousand lifetimes. Green eyes met brown, the red light still flickering around the room faintly._

_"I accept your terms," he breathed at length, and Tony smiled ever so slightly. He outstretched a pale hand. Tony seized it firmly, a searing burn landing up the length of his arm. And then, suddenly, he knew. Colors flashing behind his eyes, a hundred years of memories laid out before him. He gasped for breath, folding in on himself, dropping the hand and clenching his teeth. "Your turn," Loki grinned. Tony pushed everything to the side, cleared his mind and curled his hands into fists._

_"That panel," he motioned and Loki tore it from the wall in one savage motion. Tony staggered over, placing his thumb over the scanner and smiling wide. "Honey," he whispered, "I'm home."_

_And the walls fell down._

The guards come after a time, pulling Tony to his feet and marching him back to the 9x9 of soul-crushing fail that is his cell. He stares blankly at the wall, considering.

Then he closes his eyes and drowns himself in a sea of memories, green and blue and wild and strange.

_He turned and saw Loki staring at him with the strangest look on his face. If he hadn't known better he might have mistaken it for awe. His smile stayed on, gesturing with a hand at the now open door._

_Loki opened his mouth as if to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. He raised a thin eyebrow in something like a salute (certainly not an apology) before he turned and waltzed out of the room. Tony thought briefly of following him, maybe asking him not to blow shit up on his way out, maybe to offer another drink, but in the end did nothing but sit heavily on the bed in the corner. He sensed the exact moment the god vanished, a little thrill of something like electricity in the back of his head._

_"Jarvis?"_

_"What is it, Sir?"_

_"Maybe delete the security footage from the past hour or so?"_

_"Already done, Sir."_


End file.
